


The Fluffy Bits

by imanadultiguess



Series: Makeshift Family [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, And that OCD manifests itself as intrusive thoughts and repetitive self-soothing behaviors, Arguably Jim has OCD, Cat is injured, Dark Humor, Disney Princesses - Freeform, FLUFFFFFF, Fluff, Frank Sinatra - Freeform, Humor, If you're squeamish or easily triggered, Jim has psychopathic tendencies but isn't really a psychopath, Jim needs a pumpkin spice latte STAT, Jim tries to understand feelings in terms of chemicals, M/M, Mentions of a dead child, Murder, Parent!lock, Possibly some oocness, Wow the fluff got kinda sad, jim has a temper, mentions of abusive parents, mormor, otherwise its pretty fluffy, some gore, song fic and im not even sorry, sorry - Freeform, this might not be for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-03 21:43:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12155382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: All the fluffy bits that happen before, during, and after "A Family Grew around Me."  Some of these can probably be read as stand alones.If you're like me, you're looking for specific tags and don't want to wade through nonsense, so, to save you the time and hopefully encourage you to read it, every chapter will be titled with its trope.This is all mostly fluff.  SO FLUFF.That said, if you're easily triggered by mental illness, mentions of suicide, alcoholism, death, murder, violence, etc, this isn't the fic for you.**3/9/18 -- Update is actually new Chapter 7.  So some things were moved.**





	1. The Good Deeds of Jim Moriarty Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim pays for his niece's funeral, but he isn't sure why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is really dumb, and it will come out in a smutty fic later, but in my head, Jim goes by Jim instead of James because his parents were jackasses and named their children James and Jameson.
> 
> Jim is not happy that his real name is Jameson. And he never offers that piece of information up to anyone. Except later, but we'll get to that in another fic set several years down the road. (Spoiler alert for that fic: Basher is probably an alcoholic and is aroused when Jim admits his name is Jameson. Sex ensues.)
> 
> This fic, though, is set before Evelyn is even born.

_December 2008_

_Do_ I feel anything? I mean, I’m staring at the lifeless body of the lifeform carrying my genes (spliced with the wench her father married, of course), dark wavy hair spread like a halo around her--she’s young, beautiful, pale--I _should_ feel something, right? That’s what people do, don’t they? They mourn the deaths of their siblings’ children? 

I have too much to do to be here, and there’s not enough happening. Every single person in here is infuriatingly boring. I have papers to grade, auditions to rehearse for, and a job interview at St. Bart’s. It’s difficult work being several different people. 

Well, not difficult. . . just time consuming. 

That Basher boy. . . I like him. I like his shoulders. He’s a bit mouthy, but exceptionally loyal. 

For fuck’s sake, why am I here? 

I hear the cadence of his footsteps, the slight drag of his right foot on the carpet, before we acknowledge one another. “Thank you for coming, Jameson.” 

It’s with a bemused sort of tolerance I realize that we don’t “touch” in our family. The Moriartys don’t _touch_. But normal people touch. If we were normal brothers, his hand would be on my shoulder. If we were from a normal family, I’d embrace him. If we were normal people, he might even weep on my shoulder. We might find solace in one another. Or something. Whatever it is normal people do. Whatever it is normal people need. 

I look up to see the very similar face of my brother James. The station master. The mostly-normal person, despite whatever past we share. He blends in better, I think. I can blend, too, it's just so utterly painful to maintain the mask of normalcy. 

Paintings to forge, history to steal, why am I here? 

Why did I come? 

“That’s what people do,” I answer him. 

He lets out a shuddery breath. Ugh, he’s standing much too close; I can feel the humidity of his mouth. I take a step to my left. God, is he crying? _Hide your disgust_ , I tell myself. _Pull yourself together, Jim. You can’t be disgusted by emotion at your niece’s funeral. People will get suspicious._

He rattles on, oblivious to the fact that I've moved away from him. “It means a lot that you came.” 

Holy fictional God, marriage has made him soft. 

“It means even more that you paid for it.” 

What? _Someone is going to die._

That explains the knowing looks the priest has been throwing my way. Note to self: Basher will murder Father MacElreath. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, James,” I tell him. 

“The experimental treatments and the flights to Mexico--” 

“That was a stupid move on your part, James,” I tell him. “You wasted a lot of money on a child the doctors told you you couldn’t save.” 

Fury shines in his eyes. “Did you come here just to be a prick?” Finally. Rage. That's better. Rage is comforting. Sadness is icky. Like those slime concoctions we used to make in preschool. 

I shrug. I have no idea why I came. I have no connection to this child. I barely have a connection to my brother. Much less this godforsaken piece of England. 

I have no idea why I paid for the funeral. 

His face softens. He never had much fight in him. Disgusting. “Nonetheless, I appreciate it, Jim.” I glare at him. “And Sandra appreciates it.” 

_Sandra._ Ugh. Why in the world did he marry such an unattractive woman? Maybe I should’ve spent the money to get her teeth fixed--that would have been an expenditure I could live with. Funerals are idiotic; braces are brilliant. 

“I just . . . don’t understand why you did it.” 

“Did what?” 

“Covered the cost of the funeral.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“You did.” 

“If it was covered, James,” I ask evenly, “why does it matter who covered it or why?” 

It’s his turn to shrug. He is so painfully boring. I’ve got a knife in my pocket, and I’m debating stabbing myself with it. Pain is infinitely more tolerable than dullness and mediocrity. And if I’m bleeding, I have the perfect excuse to leave. I should stab myself in the leg. Right now. 

“It’s been five years, Jameson.” 

“It’s Jim.” 

“I haven’t heard from you since the wedding.” 

I stare down at the dead child in front of me. They tried too hard to make it look like she was healthy child, a girl asleep, but her cheeks lack the fullness of childhood and her closed eyes appear sunken. Her mouth is aged, and no amount of mortician’s makeup will fix that. The blush on her cheeks is a cheap imitation of life. God, I paid too much for this hack job. That mortician will also be on tonight's hit list. 

Just talking to my brother is making my IQ drop. I’ve got to leave soon. Don’t know that I can manage the entire funeral, considering how painful the viewing is. 

“She had your eyes. And your laugh.” 

“The correct phrasing would be she had mam’s eyes.” 

“I’d hoped you’d meet her.” 

“Why would I want to meet a child who wouldn’t see an entire decade?” 

He shrugs. “Just thought you might . . . want to.” 

God, he’s so idiotic. She was unhealthy from the get-go. Lungs underdeveloped, a premature birth. They should’ve let her go long before her fourth birthday. All she knew was four and a half years of pain and fear. Why the fuck would I want to know _that_ creature? Fear is such a waste of chemicals and neurotransmitters. 

And what benefit had she to offer me? 

Normal people don’t think like that. 

My nails need trimming and buffing. The Moran lad is waiting outside, probably smoking. I like his brand of tobacco. It’s very masculine-smelling. Maybe I should start smoking. 

Why am I still staring at this child? 

It’s not even really a child anymore. It’s an amalgamation of carbon and hydrogen and oxygen and failed DNA. 

I open my mouth to say something, then shut it. I pat James’ shoulder once. Then twice. God that feels weird. 

Finally, it comes out. “I’m sorry.” 

Those words came out of my mouth, and while it seems like someone else said them, I think I might actually mean them. There’s a cloudy sort of sensation in my chest, one that I really don’t like. It reminds me of _Wuthering Heights_ , and not in a sexy, dramatic sort of way. 

I might actually be sad. Or rather, neurotransmitters in my brain are firing in a way that interprets sadness. Is sadness even real? If sadness is made up of chemicals, is it really sadness? 

Doesn’t matter. 

“Are you really?” 

That’s the big-money question, isn’t it? Am I really? Am I really anything? If my skin cells are constantly dying and falling off my body, if the cells inside of me are constantly being replaced, am I really even Jim? Or with every new cell, with every dead cell, do I become someone new? 

He’s waiting for an answer. “Abuses and tragedies were inflicted upon us from the time we were born. But the worst thing that’s happened to us, I think, was not _inflicted_. It was neglected. I don’t have an answer because I don’t have the words to assign to whatever chemical reactions are happening inside of me.” 

He sighs, nodding his head to signify his understanding. 

“What do you feel when you look at my daughter?” 

“That I paid entirely too much for her to look like a blow-up doll. The mortician should be ashamed.” 

He laughs. “But . . . in terms of physicality--what do you feel?” 

“Good question.” I turn to look at him, impressed. “Marrying a counselor’s been beneficial, has it?” 

He half-smiles. “Answer the question, Jameson.” 

“I go by Jim.” 

“Answer the question.” 

I look back at the dead child in the coffin. “Physically? I feel like someone’s left a dirty dish rag in the floor, and I’ve just stepped on it with my barefeet in the middle of the night.” 

“So annoyance, maybe?” 

“Don’t do that,” I warn him. “Don’t assign meaning to anything about me. Nothing is inherent. Assigning a meaning to a feeling or exploring the origin of an emotion is as futile as yelling at the sun not to rise. Your daughter is dead, your wife is hideous, and you’re boring. Whether or not I’m sad or happy or indifferent has no impact on the moon in orbit or the rings around Saturn. So if I offer you any sort of emotional support, take it for what it is: an attempt to dull the pain of meaninglessness.” 

“But if you’re trying to dull the pain that I’m feeling, doesn’t that indicate some sort of sympathy? Or empathy?” 

_Motherfucker_. 

“Shut up, James.” 

His arms slowly wrap around me, and ugh, it’s so gross. He reeks of cheap shampoo and grief. It’s probably clear to everyone in the room that we don’t hug. He’s got his arms around me in such a way that I can’t raise my arms, so the two of us just stand there awkwardly. 

“I think eight seconds is the acceptable length of time for a hug, James.” 

He draws in a shuddery breath. Oh shit, pull yourself together man. 

Just let him, I tell myself. Just let him cry it out. Then you can leave. 

So I stay. 

~~

The ride to the mortician’s house is silent. Basher’s uncomfortable with silence, especially with me. He knows what happened to my last chief of staff. He knows in vivid detail because his first assignment as my CoS was to clean up the mess that remained of his predecessor. 

The soldier in him is patient, but the intelligent, anxious child in him is uneasy. The waiting that constitutes much of his job doesn’t help. The apprehension piles on. And I certainly have no intent to rush things to keep my neurotic employees happy. 

“You want to ask something,” I say after the sixth time he’s looked at me through the rearview mirror. 

He hesitates. 

“Come on, dear, be a good boy and accept the invitation to ask.” 

He’s unsure how to process the pet names. I’ll break him of his heterosexuality yet. Finally, he asks, “Why’d you pay for the funeral?” 

I’m equally surprised by the question as I am by my own surprise at the question. Basher processes things differently. Most employees would be asking why we were on the way to kill a mortician, not why I spend money on anything. 

Why do people keep asking that? Is this what normal people talk about? Who paid for the funeral? Perhaps I should slow down the murder rate so that the general population will find something else to fucking talk about. 

I think about denying about, but Basher’s more observant than that. He’s been attempting to solve the puzzle that is myself for the last three weeks, determining how to avoid being tortured to death. He's clever, Moran. Very self-preservative. 

He needn’t worry too much--those big, broad shoulders alone are worth keeping him around. 

If I denied it, he would counter with he was the one keeping the books. He may not know my name, but he knows some of my major expenses. On a side note, it was adorable how blushy and flustered he got when he discovered my gay BDSM e-subscription. Catholics are really so sweet. 

“Why do you care?” 

He shrugs. “Guess I’m just . . .” He doesn’t finish because he’s afraid to finish. 

I lean up from the back seat so that we’re cheek to cheek. “Just wondering if I killed her?” I smile broadly at him. 

He trains his face to remain even, but there’s a tiny hint of distaste in his eyes. Not disgust, it’s not as if he hasn’t killed his share of children and invalids and innocents, just distaste. He has a _thing_ about family, which is fascinating considering the years of abuse Augustus inflicted on him. 

“Guess so.” 

“No.” 

He nods. I flop back into my seat. 

“You should buckle up, boss.” 

“Drive safely and it won’t matter, Basher.” 

More silence. My brain is loud, rushing through what precludes a family, why I haven’t scheduled my manicure, the importance of touch in humans as a species, why the individual searches for meaning in the void of an unconscious universe, why Basher keeps his hair so damned short, and so on and so on. 

“She was my niece.” The words slip out. I look around trying to figure out who said them. My tum feels ill. 

He tries not to ask, but his curiosity is high. “Were you close?” 

“No.” And I’ll never have the opportunity to be close with her. The thought makes my stomach lurch. Ugh, what is going on with my body? Bloody sushi. 

“That’s sweet, boss.” 

A scream erupts from my throat, burning the sensitive internal tissue. I kick the back of his chair hard enough to knock him forward. 

It’s not sweet. 

It’s just what people do. 

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't make Jim too much like Sherlock. It's just . . . in my head, it's like he wants to be psychopathic to protect himself from the pain of real emotions and attachments, but the need for closeness and the need for love just keeps popping up in his psyche and it's difficult to interpret.


	2. The Good Deeds of Jim Moriarty Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim promises to care for Jeff Hope's kiddoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set six months after Jim "adopts" Evelyn.

_September 2009_

Normally, I wouldn’t send my second in command to handle minutia but there’s something about Basher that I just love to humiliate and anger. He needs to be broken in; he’s much too prideful. Typical Englishman. 

God, he’s gorgeous, though. Maybe not so much in the face, but those arms and that tight bum. . . 

Anyway, I’ve sent him out to meet with someone on my behalf. Can’t get my hands dirty, especially now that I’ve partnered with the Black Lotus Tong, and MI-5’s gotten suspicious about the circus’s smuggling. Now that I’m traceable in anyway, except that they know my name. 

So, while I’m getting my hair done, Basher will be meeting with this Jeff Hope man. 

_4:46 p.m. Someone else could’ve taken this._

I smile at the screen. His presumptuousness is cute, but I really can’t let it go on. People will start to talk. He’ll start to sweat if I don’t answer, so I don’t text back. He’ll call when Hope arrives, and he’ll have a much better attitude. 

Beside me, in her pram, Evelyn is sleeping soundly. Strange sensations bubble up in my stomach when I think about how often she sleeps. “Worried” as they say. I’m “worried” about her. 

I “worry” about her all the time. 

Being a father is the absolute worst, and yet the thought of dumping her somewhere makes my head pound and my heart race. And the sound of her snoring softly beneath her blankets makes me feel like I’ve finally lost that pesky five pounds. 

The call comes in at 5:00 p.m. on the dot. Hope, of course, thinks he’s meeting with me, and since he has no idea what I look like, Basher is a wonderful surrogate. He’s scarred and mean-looking and strong. I don’t trust Basher to make good decisions; he’s delusional about morals and emotions, so it’s best to feed him the words while he looks frightening. 

“I’ve heard terrible things about you.” Hope thinks he’s clever, like this is how people talk in the criminal world. Idiot. 

“Hardly the best way to start a meeting, Mr. Hope,” I say into the phone. Basher repeats it back quickly, so there’s virtually no delay. He’s a good boy. 

“What can I do for you, _Moriarty_?” He thinks using my name gives him power. I’m not a fairy and this isn’t the Dark Ages. 

“ _Professor_ will do, Jeff.” Basher imitating my inflection to perfection makes me grin. Oh he really is such a good pet. A bit rebellious, but he’s matching my wavelength, even if he doesn’t understand my thought processes or my motivations or even me. 

Keer, my hairdresser, raises their eyebrows at my grin, but they’ve known me long enough not to ask. They don’t know what I do, but they know I’m very private. And they’re very discreet. I wave them away. 

“It’s more what I can do for you, my dear.” Basher stumbles over the epithet, but only a little. Straight men are so weird about things like that. “I was very impressed how quickly you offered my employees advice on dumping a body, and I thought, you know what? There’s a man with no concern for his own well-being or the well-being of others. So I’ve been watching you, Jeff. And I think I have the perfect assignment for you.” 

“And if I say no?” 

“Then you won’t have to wait for the aneurysm to kill you.” 

There’s a silence. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you know about that.” 

“You also shouldn’t be surprised that I know about your offspring.” 

“If you come near--” 

“Shut it. Don’t interrupt me again, Mr. Hope. I’m not a patient man, and I’m doing this as a favor to you. Be more appreciative.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“You know what’s boring, Mr. Hope? London. It’s been over a year since the last terror attack. People are flitting about, living their lives, unafraid of the big bad world. All those nasty bombings and beheadings are happening _Over There_. I hate monotony. I hate how London gets when no one’s afraid. So, I have a proposition for you.” 

Hope hesitates. “What? You want me to be a terrorist?” 

“No, no, no, as a white man you’d never be labelled as a terrorist, especially not with your health issues. No, I want you to be a good, old-fashioned serial killer.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I want you to kill people. And for every person you kill, I’ll set aside money for your kiddies.” 

Hope waits, thinking it over. 

“I’m a very busy man, Jeff. You can take the offer on or you can die, but the call has to be made in the next five seconds. I have things to do.” 

“How much?” 

I laugh. “I’m very rich. And you’re very angry. Must we assign numbers to our situation?” 

“Five thousand pounds per child. Per murder.” 

I roll my eyes. “I never pay anyone more than it would cost to murder them. You kill two people, suddenly I’m in the red. But I’m feeling generous. Five thousand it is, but make it fun. Impress me, Jefferson. If you disappoint me, I’ll kill you.” 

~~

Evelyn’s asleep on my chest. I can feel her ribcage expand with every breath she takes. She’s ruined my favorite suit with spit-up, and I’m annoyed at my absent desire to shove her in the garbage disposal. Instead, I find I’m relieved that she won’t be dealing with tummy discomfort for the rest of the night. 

Her tiny fist has grasped the sleeve of my robe. She’s just holding it. Holding on to me. 

Frankly it’s terrifying all the weird chemicals and hormones and signals firing off in my brain. It’s been terrifying for the last six months. But there must be a reward element to them, because I keep coming back to her. I keep not leaving her. I fear I’m stuck with her. Permanently. 

Basher’s drunk-calling, apparently. I’m not surprised that he’s drunk-calling; he drinks a lot when he’s not gambling or fucking. I am surprised though that he’s calling _me_. 

It’s a with an amused annoyance that I answer, careful not to stir Evelyn. “Hello, sexy.” 

“Shuddup, boss.” 

“Careful, Moran. You called me, and you’re not hard to replace.” 

“It’s killin’ me, boss. Why? Why are you doing this?” 

“Again, you called me.” 

“No, why are you payin’ him to kill people?” 

“Are you jealous that I have other assassins?” 

“No! I just don’t unnerstand!” 

“Basher, my patience is wearing thin.” 

“The cabbie! Why are you givin’ his rugrats money?” 

“Because London needs a serial killer.” 

“But why the kids?” 

“It’s a good motivator.” 

“He didn’t need motivation. You know he didn’t need motivation!” 

“Stop yelling, Basher.” 

“I’m s’posed to be keepin’ the books, ‘nd I just don’t get it. I mean, that’s an outrageous expense, Boss.” 

“That is not your concern, Bash. Just keep my staff paid and kill them when I ask.” 

“I don’t get it!” 

“I don’t pay you to get it. I’m hanging up now. Kisses.” 

He calls back, but I don’t answer. 

I don’t get it either. I don’t give a shit about his kids. I don’t give a shit about him. I don’t give a shit about London, not really. 

Only, when I think about being separated from Evelyn, everything inside of me aches. And Jefferson Hope can never see his kids. He hasn’t the money to fight the custody agreement. Maybe I feel sorry for him? 

And I feel vomitty when I think about why Evelyn might’ve been in that shipment, when I think about what might’ve happened to her if I hadn’t kept her. 

I shouldn’t take her with me to get my hair done. The chemicals can’t possibly be good for a nine-month-old. Maybe that was part of her indigestion. 

It doesn’t matter what my motivations are. I’ve made my deal with Jefferson Hope. Maybe the Homicide and Serious Crime Command will call in that Sherlock fellow. I enjoy watching him work. The fact that the Hope children will be cared for is inconsequential. Valueless.

I'm stirring the English pot of chaos, and that's all that really matters. That's the only _lasting_ impact.


	3. Pumpkin Spice Latte Assassination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Jim being a jackass employer.

_October 2009_

The Boss is much more fidgety than usual, and it’s distracting. He’s never accompanied me on a kill before, and I’m not sure why he’s here now, but he insisted. 

He taps his toes on the hard cement of the roof. 

“Boss!” 

“Watch your attituuuude,” he chirps, eyes still glued to his mobile. 

“You’re really throwing me off.” I try to sound calm and patient and not annoyed, but _Christ_ the Professor is annoying. 

He keeps tapping. 

“Boss, please?” 

He looks up to give me a death glare. The tapping stops. “Why is this taking so long?” 

I grit my teeth to keep from shouting at the little shit. “I wanna do this job right, and I’ve not had a lot of time to do the research, and I’m really not familiar with Seattle’s weather patterns.” 

“You knew we were coming; why didn’t you do your research?” 

“I only found out we were coming to Seattle twelve hours ago. And I was drunk up until six.” 

The Professor feigns sympathy. “Oh, you’re hungover. That’s why this is taking so long.” 

_I could literally blow a hole in your abdomen right now the size of your passport._ I don’t say that of course because truthfully my employer terrifies me. 

I am hungover. My head aches and my guts are all squirmy and gross and acidic. The haze of Seattle and the bariatric pressure of the looming rains certainly don’t help. 

“You should drink less.” 

“I wasn’t expecting to be called to go to Seattle on my day off.” 

“You don’t have ‘days off’, Basher. You have days where it’s unlikely that I’ll have an assignment for you, but you’re always on call.” 

That’s what happens when you make a deal with the devil. The next time I sign on with a criminal mastermind, I’m making a few stipulations. 

And then the moment hits. The wind has stopped, the clouds have moved just enough that the moon’s glow is decipherable from the street lamps and lights from the surrounding buildings, and I can make out the bald head of my victim in the window. 

Oh my God, this is going to be beautiful. My heart pounds. Deep breath in. Finger on the trigger. Perfect shot. 

“Oh my God!” the boss groans. “I just really need a pumpkin spice latte.” 

The moment passes, and I am absolutely furious. I want to shove the fucker right off the building. I’m about to. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” 

He leans dangerously over the roof, searching the streets. “That Starbucks is open twenty-four hours a day. Let’s go get lattes.” 

I gape at him. “No!” 

“Why?” He seems genuinely surprised by the answer. 

“Because I’m not a fifteen-year-old girl!” I return my attention to the victim in my scope. I can’t fire now. It’d hit the mirror once it went through her, and that would be a lot of trouble in retrieving the shell. 

“Neither am I.” 

“Then you certainly don’t need a pumpkin pie latte.” 

“Pumpkin _spice_ , you Philistine.” 

I take a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “Boss, you’re really throwing me off here.” 

“You’re a terrible sniper.” 

“I’m the best sniper in the world, you--” I don’t finish that sentence. Being found on the roof of a Holiday Inn in Seattle, Washington is not included in my ideal obituary. “Boss, _please_. I’m begging you. I can’t work if you’re going to be like this.” 

“Why are you taking so loooooong?” 

“Because that’s what happens on the job.” 

“My last Chief of Staff didn’t take this long.” 

“Was your last Chief of Staff a sniper?” 

“No.” 

“Did he kill people?” 

“Yes.” 

“From a distance?” 

“No.” His eyes trail back to the Starbucks logo, blurred by the fog. “Have you ever even _had_ a pumpkin spice latte?” 

“Oh my God.” 

“Because they’re really fucking tasty.” 

“Professor, go get one. I think it’ll be good for you. And for the job.” 

“No,” he hisses. “I’m doing an observation.” 

“Observers aren’t usually this chatty.” 

I sense the change in his mood. He’s pissed. Better back up. “What was that? Sebastian?” 

“Sir, you’ve got to give me room to work. And I can’t work if you’re talking to me.” 

“Didn’t realize you were such a sensitive little snowflake,” he mocks me. He returns his attention to his phone. 

I wait. The winds are kicking up again, which is bad news for me. The clouds seem to be moving over the moon again, though. Maybe I could overcompensate for the winds. . . 

Shit, he’s in a perfect position to be killed. I could do it. I think I can manage. . . 

_Deep breath._

“Have you ever even had a latte?” 

“PROFESSOR!” 

“That’s probably why you’re so irritable. You’re just full of scotch and other depressants.” 

“Boss, I have coffee every morning.” 

“Yes but it’s black. I thought it was the years of abuse you endured as a child, but I’m starting to think your bitterness comes from your coffee.” 

“Do you actually want this man dead?” 

“No more than I want a pumpkin spice latte.” 

“Then go get one.” 

“I will after you do your damned job.” 

I’m about to shoot myself in the head. 

“I don’t pay you to lollygag on rooftops,” he continues. 

“Is this a test? Are you testing me to see how patient I can be? Or if I perform well under pressure? Or if I can control my temper? Or is this punishment for being hungover?” 

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Basher, that’s ridiculous. I can’t _punish_ you for being hungover. I can punish you for getting drunk. Consuming too much whiskey is a decision you made. Being hungover is just a consequence. I can’t punish you for a consequence. Just the action that leads up to the consequence.” 

“Your logic is flawed, but I can’t figure out how.” 

He gives it a thought, then concedes. “I suppose ‘can’t’ is a strong verb. ‘Wouldn’t.’ That fits better. I wouldn’t punish you for a consequence. I could. And I can, but I won’t.” 

I have to think about this. I check the sight once again to buy myself some time. “But Ludovic.” Ludovic was a runner who fucked up. Moriarty told him if the Nigerians found out, he’d kill him. If they didn’t, he wouldn’t. 

“Well, that wasn’t so much _punishment_ as it was chance, was it?” 

I turn around to face him. “Okay, but let’s say I jump off this building. If I hit the ground--” 

“I love that you say ‘if’, like there’s a chance you wouldn’t hit the ground if you jumped off this building.” He giggles like a little girl. I wonder if he’s on the upswing of a manic episode. I don’t think about the Boss often, but when I do, I’m usually trying to figure out what the hell’s going on in there. Currently, I’m thinking bipolar disorder? 

“ _When_ I hit the ground, you’d punish me for hitting the ground.” 

“That is bloody ridiculous, Basher, you’d be dead.” 

I rub my eyes. I can’t figure out if I want a fag, a shot, or water. Maybe all three. “Assuming I lived. What would be the reason I’d be in trouble?” 

“Your stupidity, I’d say.” 

“No, I’d be in trouble because I hit the ground!” 

His demeanor changes rapidly. Suddenly, his eyes are blazing and those black eyes are boring into mine. I shiver. “You’re an idiot. Hitting the ground is the natural consequence of jumping off the building. I can’t expect you to defy the laws of physics, but I can expect you to be aware of them and not tempt gravity!” 

I need to think about that. I turn back to the rifle. The mark is out of sight. FUCK. 

“Let’s say I take a shot, but I miss the target. Am I in trouble because I missed or because the target is still alive?” 

He glares. “Why the hell does it matter? Everyone wants to assign meaning and cause to everything. Sometimes there is no cause!” 

My temper is threatening to explode. “YOU. ARE. THE ONE. THAT MADE THE DISTINCTION!” 

“There you go again, assigning blame and cause. I was just saying it was stupid to punish someone because they’re hungover, but you have to get all philosophical about it.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “I just want a pumpkin spice latte.” 

“Well, I wanna go to bed, but neither of those things is gonna happen as long as you keep talking while I’m trying to take the shot.” 

Suddenly, flirtation is painted on his face. “Bed? But we _work_ together,” he says, purposefully dramatic, swooning. 

Disgusted, I turn back to the mark. 

It’s the perfect shot. It’s now or never. I want to go to sleep. And maybe throw up everything I drank in the last twenty-four hours. 

The bullet glides through the air seamlessly, like a shark attacking its prey. The glass doesn’t even shatter. There’s just a hole in the glass, and a beautiful splatter on the white carpet of the mark’s room. The mattress stopped the shell, meaning an easy retrieval. It’s perfect. Holy fuck, it’s gorgeous. I mean, just. . . if I could frame that entire kill I would. 

I turn to the Professor, smug as hell. “How’s that, _boss_?” 

He’s on his mobile, not paying a bit of attention. “There’s not even pumpkin in the pumpkin spice lattes.” He looks up at me with deep, deep disgust. “What the hell have I been drinking?” 

“Were you even watching?” 

“Of course not. Come along, Moran. It’s latte time.” 

“I’ll pass.” 

“No you woooon’t.”

~~

I stare at the white cup, watching steam rise from the rectangular hole on the edge. "Boss. Please." 

The Professor's knife jabs a bit deeper into my skin. The skin's not broken yet, but if he keeps pushing it will be. "I'd really rather you not bleed all over Starbucks." 

"Don't make me do this." 

He sings out in his flirty Moriarty way. " _Drink your goddamned pumpkin spice latte._ " 

I hope to God it's poisoned.


	4. Jim and Evelyn watch Aladdin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim reflects on his Sherlock obsession and what it means to have Evelyn in his life. He also tries to prepare Evelyn for his inevitable departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before Chapter Four of "A Family Grew Around Me."

_KILL SHERLOCK._

_Shh. Shhh. Not now. Not while Evelyn’s still awake._

_kill sherlock._

At any given time, I have hundreds of electro-chemicals masquerading around as thoughts buzzing through my head. _Why do imploding dying stars_ explode _? Is dark matter a fundamental particle? If I’m “worried” about Evelyn, does it qualify as simply the primary emotion of fear or is it a tertiary emotion categorized under fear? What’s the biological basis of my attachment to her? What’s causing the glitch in my bank heist app? Instinctively, I want to blame Robertson, but he’s dead, so clearly, the fault lays in the socket programming._

There’s _always_ an undercurrent of problem-solving and questioning happening in my internal monologue. 

Lately though that internal monologue has been plagued with two words. 

KILL SHERLOCK. 

I’m not sure why. It happens sometimes, though. Misfirings in the brain, unresolved thought patterns, causing the same thought to play over and over again. It’s why I obsessively wash my hands, why I wake up at three in the morning determined to obtain a cinnamon roll at all costs, why I absolutely _must_ drink godawful, cheap Sutter Homes wine while watching the Home Shopping Network on Sunday mornings. Why I count Evelyn’s fingers. Why I count the stairs in the stairway up to my flat. 

Those things have to happen, otherwise I can’t let go of the thoughts. 

It’s manageable, usually. Just do what the brain wants. 

Killing Sherlock Holmes is different though. It has to be special. 

I wonder how similar my obsession with Evelyn is to my obsession with Sherlock? If I “love” Evelyn, do I “love” Sherlock? 

Love isn’t real. 

Well, no, that’s not true. C8H11NO2+C10H12N2O+C43H66N12O12S2 = love. There’s an observable structure to “love” but it’s all chemical. 

_KILL SHERLOCK._

The thought has been louder these past few months, so I knew something _had_ to change. 

I’ve shown my hand to Mycroft Holmes. Subtly, of course. He thinks he’s clever, having decoded my shorthand in my diary. What he doesn’t know is that I only keep a diary for him to decode. 

So, at any given time, I’ll disappear. I’ll be “caught.” 

I _could_ potentially be killed, but I doubt it. My existence is a double-edged sword. I keep the underground too orderly. Ordered criminal happenings is comforting to the British government, to the governments of the world, but chaos is uncontrollable. In short, they _need_ me, because I keep the baddies in check, and while I keep them in check, they have a better chance of rounding them up. 

It’s good to be king. 

Mycroft will get what he needs from me, then release me, and I’ll get what I need from him to kill his brother in the most delicious way possible. 

Everybody wins. Except Sherlock. 

There’s a rub, though. Evelyn. 

I’ll be away from Evelyn. And that makes me. . . I don’t have the words, really. Thinking about it feels like my skin is being shaved off my bones, like someone’s jabbing icepicks into my wrists. Like someone’s ripped open my ribcage and poured ice directly onto my heart. 

It’s so strange how neurotransmitters like dopamine and oxytocin can cause actual, tangible, physical sensations. 

It has to happen though. It’s a sacrifice I have to make. The KILL SHERLOCK thought is like a smoldering coal that gradually gets warmer. If I don’t handle it _now_ , it will consume my thoughts, and there won’t be room for anything else. 

This is the best course of action, long-term. I hate long-term thinking. I prefer living in the moment. Impulse. But it’s part of being a criminal mastermind. You have to plan ahead. 

Basher will watch my little angel. He doesn’t know it yet, and if I give him the head’s up, he’ll make up his mind to disobey my orders. But the soldier in him obeys orders given in the heat of the moment. Controlling Basher boils down to never giving him time to think. Toss him in a crisis, he’s golden. Give him time to process, he’s a bloody nightmare. 

And, if I’m fair to myself, to him, and to Evelyn, he’s the only person in the world (besides my daughter) that I trust. He’s never let me down. And on some very primitive level, he’s got a basic instinct to protect. He thinks that makes him weak, and it does, so he overcompensates for that instinct by killing. Nonetheless that protective instinct is ever present. 

So, to help my little angel adjust to the idea that Basher will be taking care of her, that she can trust him, I settle us both in her _Iron Man_ tent and put in _Aladdin_. 

“See the tiger, Evey?” 

“Tiga!” she squeals. 

“What’s the tiger doing, precious?” 

“Tiga!” 

“Yes, he’s being a tiger, but he’s also protecting Jasmine, isn’t he? From that nasty prince Achmed, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah!” 

“Because that’s what tigers do!” 

She claps, then points to me. “Tiga!” 

The entirety of my body is flooded with those damned reward chemicals, making me feel melty and sentimental and blurry, like I’m damned to spend an eternity in a Prendergast watercolor. 

“ _A leanbh_.” I pull her close to me, close enough that I can feel her breath, her heartbeat, the bounce of her curls against my cheek as she giggles. Having a child is like exposing a nerve, then never doing anything to conceal it. Her very existence makes me ache, and if I think about it too much, my eyes burn. 

A tear slides down my cheek. 

_Gross._

“No, I’m your daddy, not your tiger. But your tiger is coming, yeah?” 

“Bomb.” 

“No, no, don’t say that. That’s why we can’t go back to the museum. Say ‘tiger’!” 

“TIGA!” 

“That’s right! That’s exactly right! You’re so clever.” 

“Tiga, not bomb.” 

“Right. And your tiger will come, and he’ll protect you. So you won’t be scared at all, right?” 

She tilts her head. She taps my fingers, imitating what I do to her while I read to her. My guts are mushy. 

“You’re brave, aren’t you?” 

She nods earnestly. “Like Jazz.” 

“Yes, you’re brave like Jasmine and a tiger will come and keep you safe.” 

“From the zoo.” 

“No, he won’t come from the zoo.” I grab a notepad from the coffee table and scribble Basher’s face on the body of a tiger. The scars on his face are perfect for a human-tiger hybrid. “He’ll look like that.” 

She takes the paper and studies it. She’s mimicking me. “Modeling” her therapist calls it. She’s seen me study papers before, so she mimics my face. She takes the pen from my hand and begins marking fiercely. “No no no, idiot.” 

I burst into laughter. This is, unfortunately, how I grade papers. My students are idiots. Mercifully, I just have one class this semester. 

“Are you grading my drawing?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You don’t like my tiger?” 

She thinks about it, then returns to tapping my fingers. “Did you know that I love you?” I ask. Whether or not I do “love” her, I’m unsure, but it’s important that she feel secure. I’ll lie to her every chance I get if it means she’ll feel safe and won’t worry. 

She nods. 

“I love you bunches and bunches.” 

She kisses my cheek, leaving a trail of saliva. Toddlers are so disgusting, but I don’t brush it off because she gets upset when I do. “Luff you too.” 

She’s getting sleepy. Her thumb is in her mouth. I watch her eyelids droop. I should put her to bed. I shouldn’t have put the DVD in. I should have stuck to our schedule. She gets upset when our schedule changes. 

But this is important. The coming weeks are going to be difficult. She needs to be prepared. 

_KILL SHERLOCK._

_Hush, hush, I will. I’m going to. Just a few more things to line up._

Her slobbery kiss has dried on my cheek. 

She’s unimportant to my work. She’s unimportant in this arbitrary universe. So, why does it seem that she has the answers to the flyby anomaly, that she’s the only possible solution to Lehmer’s conjecture, that she’s more than neurons firing and cellular production? 

_KILL SHERLOCK._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't to be read that Jim has multiple personalities. Think of it as Jim's self-talk.


	5. Smoking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Throwback to the time that Basher decided to quit smoking. Also Jim was being tortured by the British Government.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm reworking everything and adding things in and hopefully soon I'll be able to present you with something that tells the story with everything in chronological order, BUT for now . . . here's this itty bitty vignette.

_April 2011_

Evelyn, saddled in her high-chair beside me, takes a long gulp of her apple juice, just as I take a long pull from my whiskey.  By now, I’ve learned that toddlers cannot be trusted with mugs and straws, that they absolutely must use sippy cups if I have any hope to salvage Moriarty’s carpet.  I can only imagine the tirade he'll launch into when he sees the various stains on his plush white rugs.  

The sight of her makes me uncomfortable.  I can’t pinpoint why for a long time.  I take a long drag and exhale smoke, nicotine satisfying something in my moderately sedated brain.  Still, vague images of tissue and viscera slowly turning black emerge behind my eyes.  

I polish off the Jameson in my mug, puzzling as to why I'm uneasy.  Another puff.  Evelyn brings the straw to her lips.  I flick the ash off the butt of my cigarette.  I feel a touch squeamish.  

Why does Evelyn _have_ a straw when she has a sippy cup?  

The answer is because I gave her one.  

Why? Because she asked for one.

_But why did she ask for one?_

She inhales loudly on the straw, sucking in nothing, then exhales.  It clicks in my head suddenly why she wanted a straw. I look at my cigarette, perched between my two fingers.  Evelyn’s done precisely the same with her straw.

Oh.  Dear.  

The smoky image of decaying tissue sharpens to a tiny pair of lungs, shriveling up and hardening like a grape in the sun.  My GP's mantra of "those'll kill you, Colonel" echoes in the back of my skull.  I take another drag.

I don’t want to ask because I know the answer, and I know what the answer will mean for me, but out it comes, questionmark and all.  “Evelyn, what are you doing?”

“Smoking.”

_Goddammit._

I drum my fingers on the tabletop.   _Fuck._ I shouldn’t smoke in the same flat as a two-year-old, I realize.  Hadn’t even occurred to me until just now. And I’m sure the Professor will bitch that everything reeks of Davidoff Classic smoke when he returns.   _That's what you get for leaving me with your fucking weed, Professor._

I'm kidding myself if I think I'd ever actually say that to his face.

I eye the butt hanging between my fingers.  Evelyn does the same. I exhale loudly, and so does she.  I take another drag. So does she. We exhale in unison.  She looks to me for approval. Why the  _fuck_ do children imitate every GODDAMN thing they see?  Or, more importantly, why do I give a shit about her lungs?  I don't. I just don't want Moriarty  _skinning me_ because his daughter has developed an addiction to imaginary nicotine.

_Jesus, tiny little lungs shrinking . . . the way she coughed on the docks . . ._

“Evelyn, we quit tomorrow, deal?” I hold out my hand.  

Her tiny little fist balls around two of my fingers.  The fragility of children is nerve-wracking.  I much prefer murdering them.  She nods her head.  “Deal.”

When we break, we both take another drag.  


	6. Sentimental Emotional Return where everyone cries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim returns from captivity. Evelyn is upset.
> 
> Everyone has lots of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Evelyn has an insecure-ambivalent/disorganized attachment style. Also she's two, and emotions are overwhelming for two-year-olds anyway. The return of her primary caregiver would be traumatic and really hard for her to interpret.
> 
> You can blame Jim's over-emotionalness on the fact that Mycroft tortured him for a month and a half.

_May 2011_

We both agreed it would be in Evelyn’s best interest if the Boss didn’t look like he’d been tortured for the last month and a half when she saw him again. I drop him off at his flat in Islington so he can shower and shave and look somewhat presentable, and I’m about to leave to go pick up Evelyn when profanity seeps out of the bathroom. 

He keeps dropping things in the shower. After the third loud _thunk_ in a two-minute period, I know I can’t just _ignore_ it. We’ve reached the point that not acknowledging the Professor’s failing hands and weakened state would be awkward. 

“Erm, Boss?” I say, ducking my head into the steam-filled bathroom where the Professor is showering. “Do you, erm, do you need some help?” 

“Ooh,” he says flirtatiously, like he’s not just been released from a government torture chamber, “trying to get in the shower with me? And in my oh-so-vulnerable state?” 

“Forget it. Keep dropping the soap on your toes. I’m going to get your daughter.” 

~~

I don’t know what the protocol for this is. How do you reintroduce kid to her dad? Especially when he looks thinner and paler and just all around corpse-y? 

Evelyn is chatty on our way back to the flat, holding my hand and telling me about her friend’s dog Muffin who sounds like an absolute psychopath. I make a note to never drop her off there again, because apparently Muffin bit his owner while she was there and wouldn’t let go. Except, I won’t have to drop her off anywhere ever again. 

Her daddy is back. 

She’s not mine. She’s not my responsible. I’m not her papa, regardless of whatever’s happening in her little kid head. 

I’m relieved. 

Right? 

Right. I’m not sad at all. I have my life back. I can go back to drinking whenever the hell I want. Hell, I could probably take up smoking again, since I don’t have to worry about her imitating me or her tiny little lungs getting black with secondhand smoke. 

_I’m not sad at all._

“Little girl,” I interrupt her, because, oh my God, this story is going on forever, and we’re almost to our building. Her building. I don’t live here. “Do you remember your Daddy?” 

She grins up at me. “Tiga.” 

Oh fuck, this is gonna be hard. “No, your Daddy? Your before Daddy?” 

“Gone. Just poof.” 

“Right, but you remember him?” 

Her brow furrows, and I can’t decipher the emotions playing across her face. 

“Do you remember him?” 

She nods her head. But her focus is fixated on a crack in the sidewalk. “Well, he came back.” 

She shakes her head. “Nope. Dis ears.” 

“Okay, but he reappeared.” 

She shrugs. It’s not an explicitly appropriate response, but what I’ve learned about toddlers in the time that the Professor has been gone is that their responses aren’t appropriate. They’re emotions and responses and thoughts don’t make sense, don’t have any real logic to them. Toddlers are probably crying all the time because life is so confusing when your brain isn’t in tune with the world around you. 

I start to explain further, but you know what? She’s not mine. She’s not my daughter, my issue, my responsbility. The boss can go over all this with her. 

“. . . I don’t care, Archibald,” the Professor is saying when we enter the flat. He’s marching uneasily around the flat. While he doesn’t reek anymore, he doesn’t look much better than when I picked him up. He’s limping, I realize. And it looks like he tried to shave despite his fingers being stiff and numb and blue. He looks so tired and ill. I’m not sure how safe it is to leave either of the Moriartys alone; they’re both extremely vulnerable. 

Moriarty’s eyes light up, though, when we come through the door. Some semblance of life touches his gaunt cheeks. “Fix it,” he barks into the mobile before tossing it onto the sofa. With some difficulty, he gets to his knees. “Evey!” He opens his arms to her. 

“No,” she growls, grabbing my hand, her tiny fingernails digging into my palm. 

The Boss’s face falls. “Evey? Evelyn?” 

She screams this blood-curdling scream full of rage and fear and God only knows what. “No!” she shouts, hurling her backpack at him before storming back to her room. She slams the door as hard as her little toddler arms can manage. 

The Boss looks even paler now. He closes his eyes slowly. When he opens them, I think I see tears welling up in them. 

Seeing what might possibly be tears in the Professor’s eyes makes me feel ill. “Er, I’ll--I’ll go get her.” 

“No,” he snaps. He gets to his feet. “No, I need to handle this.” I follow him back to her room, my stomach in knots. Oh God, am I gonna be stuck with her? If Moriaty throws her out, will I be willing to take her? If he goes in for the kill, will I let him? 

Evey is under her crib. The only reason I know she’s crying is the erratic rise and fall of her shoulders. Somehow, the silent sobbing of a toddler is so much more heartbreaking than screams and crying. 

Moriarty gets to his knees again, sitting before the crib like it’s a throne. “Evey?” he says again. 

“No!” she screeches. 

“I missed you, darling.” 

“No!” 

“Okay. It’s okay.” His voice is so soft and I can’t interpret his tone. “You can stay under there as long as you need to.” 

She scoots further under the crib. His shoulders sag in defeat. And then there’s a long silence. I’m mesmerized. My boss, the Professor of the Underground, is on the floor, waiting for a little girl. Completely subdued. At her mercy. 

When the quiet sobbing stops, she crawls out from under the crib and her little leg swings at her Daddy. Then her tiny hands slap against his face, his shoulders, his arms. She melts into this tornado of violence and loud crying and screaming. And he. . . he just lets her. He doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t withdraw or make a sound or anything. 

“Evelyn, don’t hit,” I tell her. I’m shocked at how puny my own voice sounds. 

“It’s fine.” The boss waves me away. “She’s fine.” 

“ _I hate you_ ,” the toddler screeches. “ _Hate you_.” She swings for his face again. He could stop the impact. He doesn’t. 

“Can I hold you, Evelyn?” 

“No!” Her entire face is wet with tears and snot. 

He holds out his hand to her. I should leave. My involvement ended several minutes ago. Hell, I didn’t even have to go pick her up. I could’ve been in my own flat a half hour ago. She stares at his open palm and smacks it, over and over and over again, and then finally, his fingers close over her tiny hand, slow and gentle. 

“I’m so sorry, Evelyn.” He sounds even more hoarse than when I picked him two hours ago. “Baby, I’m so, so sorry.” 

She stops swinging and kicking but her crying magnifies and the Professor pulls her towards him, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her tiny head of wild curls under his chain. “No,” she sobs. “No, no, no.” 

He lifts her off the ground, and I have to stop myself from reaching to catch her, fearful that he’ll drop her. Or that he’ll fall. 

“I’ll never, ever, ever leave you again, angel. Ever.” 

“No!” she spits angrily at him, even as her arms squeeze his neck and her fists grip the collar of his shirt. She wipes her face against his shoulder. “No,” she says again, softer this time. 

“I promise I’ll never be gone ever again. I promise.” 

She murmurs something angry into his chest, shaking her head. 

“It’s okay, precious. You can be angry for the rest of your life if you want to. I’ll be here.” 

She breaks into new sobs, these ones sounding less like they came from the gates of Hell. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t think she does either. 

The Professor kisses her hair, and it’s like a damn breaks inside him. He presses a million kisses to her hair, her face, her hands. 

“So, are you two, erm, are you okay?” 

He starts. “Jesus, why are you still here?” 

“I thought you might. . . I don’t know.” 

“We’re okay. Or we will be. Right, Evelyn?” 

“No,” she says again, hiding her face in his neck. 

He turns around to face me, and _holy God, there are tears._ There are actual tears in his eyes and on his face. As if he didn’t look pitiful enough with the bags under his blackened eyes and his split lip, now he’s fucking crying. 

_This is my employer?_

“Leave, Basher.” 

“Are you sure?” 

He sniffs and takes a deep breath. He straightens his shoulders. He sounds like his old self. “You’ve done your duty,” he says. “Go on home, Colonel.” 

“You’re not--you won’t hurt her, right? Boss?” 

His eyes close again, and he leans his cheek against her head. Bitterly, he asks, “What more could I possibly do to her?” 

“Don’t--don’t drop her. Your hands . . .” 

“She’s fine. I’ve got her.” He buries his face in her hair, and _fuck, he’s crying_. He’s legitimately crying. 

I reach out to touch his shoulder, then stop myself. 

This isn’t mine. This isn’t my family or my problem. The Boss fucked up, that’s on him. And he’s weird kid’s psychological damage is his to deal with. 

Like he said, I’ve done my duty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically no one in this chapter understands their feelings. 
> 
> Evelyn's too little and Jim and Basher are just too repressed.


	7. The Good Deeds of Jim Moriarty Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Third Good Deed of Jim Moriarty. 
> 
> Set after his apparent suicide, but before chapter 6 of "A Family Grew Around Me."
> 
> Jim helps a nun. Because Evelyn. 
> 
> Told from the perspective of said nun.

_March 21, 2012_

_Dear Mr. Brook,_

_Hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all transgressions. Proverbs 10:12_

_I start my letter to you this way, Mr. Brook, because when I first saw you, I recognized you for who you were: that terrible man who committed those murders, those frauds, those kidnappings with the disgraced consulting detective Mr. Holmes._

_I say this, not to alarm, nor to put you on guard, for I have no intentions of exposing you or your wonderful little girl. Instead, I am writing you to tell you that your love for your daughter has brought me my own redemption._

_Nuns read the news, of course. Sister Agathe was so distraught when Holmes was exposed, and even more so when the death of Rich Brook hit the newspapers. I think she fancied him. I think we all did. And for you to step forward and tell the world that he’s a fraud--why, it was simply devastating. And then for Mr. Holmes to be your murderer--a travesty!_

_And so, I simply despised you when you came to the church’s day program for children. I remember it was snowing, and sweet Evelyn was buried beneath your coat as you carried her inside. Your application named you as Addison O’Neal, Programming Professor at the university. You’d made it clear that you had no interest in Evelyn’s spiritual life, nor did you believe in God, much less His Son._

_And when I asked why you would bring your child to a children’s program at a church, you gave me an honest answer. We had the best reviews. We’d come highly recommended. Since French and German were new to Evelyn, and since we had several English-speaking staff, you thought this the best place for her._

_I considered calling the police. I considered distracting you until they arrived. What a horrible man you had been, Mr. Brooks, accompanying that horrible fraud in his sins against God’s children. I didn’t realize the hardness of my heart, my pride that I was somehow superior to you because I served the Lord and you served man. And your very existence was a lie; by all accounts you were dead._

_But when Evelyn started to cry, your heartbreak was plain on your face. You murmured to her in English, soft and gentle and comforting, the way the Lord speaks to us. A still, small voice._

_You looked at Sister Agathe and said, “I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry. She’s not ready. The move from Ireland’s been too traumatic. I’m sorry. Perhaps next year.”_

_I knew then that while I hated you for your sins, I could never report you. I could not take from a child a father who loved her so dearly._

_“Please, sir, we see this all the time,” I told her, careful not to touch you lest your sin contaminate me. “Separation anxiety is all. Stay with her for a few minutes, and she will settle in.”_

_You murmured to her again and she shook her head. “Please?” you asked her._

_Silence passed between the two of you. She shrugged. “She’s a very anxious child,” you explained, the concern painfully evident on your face. Hurt, even. Something had happened to hurt both of you, and I wondered for a brief moment what you had done to the child. You absently kissed her forehead, an act of affection you didn’t even register, as most parents don’t, and I felt foolish for ever thinking you could harm this child._

_“I’ll stay and watch, if I may,” you said after a negotiation with Evelyn._

_She warmed up quickly, as most children do. Children are so resilient. Whatever happened, I assure you she will be fine._

_After that first day, she didn’t much coaching to join the other children while they played. You tried not to be disappointed at her eagerness to leave you. Like any decent parent, you want her to grow in healthy socialization._

_The Sisters and myself all loved Evelyn. We looked forward to seeing her every Tuesday and Thursday when the program was offered. She’s such a force of nature, but she’s gentle when she’s asked to be. She also notices things. She’s brilliant in that way._

_We didn’t tell the children about my diagnosis, of course. We doubted that it would be helpful to them and likely cause them distress. But somehow Evelyn knew. She would pick flowers from the gardens and from the vestibule and deliver them to me._

_I don’t know the circumstances of her abduction, of course. I can’t help but think that your previous life had a hand in what happened, but again, you were a spectacular father to her, and she is secure in your love for her. That’s the safety children truly need._

_Over those few short months that I knew the both of you, conviction pierced my heart and my pride._

_Romans tells us that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God . . ._

_I myself am no different than you. Your sins are no worse than mine, not before a holy God. We are both the crucified man beside Jesus on the Cross--guilty and broken and sanctified because love covers all transgressions. Your love of your child is redemptive for yourself and also for me. All our righteous acts are like filthy rags before the Lord, and yet love has healed our brokenness._

_Your love for Evelyn has convicted me of my hubris. I am no more equipped to judge you than I am equipped to judge the Savior of mankind._

_My last day at the program, after the doctor told me that the treatments were no longer working, Evelyn was secretive, watching me with a guilty look on her face, careful that I had not seen what she had done. It’s unusual for her to misbehave, and even more so for her to attempt to conceal her misbehavior, but since I could find no evidence of her misdeeds, I couldn’t confront her._

_She saw you coming up the breezeway to retrieve her for the day, and she ran from the classroom. Sister Agathe gave chase, because the cancer has made that sort of movement much too painful. She returned a moment later with you in tow and Evelyn grinning impishly in your arms._

_Her dark eyes, which look so much like yours, met mine and she wriggled from your grasp and ran to me where I sat in my chair, exhausted. She was clutching something beneath her coat._

_“I made this for you!” she announced, shoving a beautiful handmade card into my hand. “And everyone signed it!” Most of the children aren’t as gifted as Evelyn--they weren’t able to write their names, but instead squiggled a series of letters and numbers. On the front in childish print read “Get Well Soon.”_

_And she hugged me so tight and kissed my cheek. Has anything ever been more redemptive, more lifegiving than the love of a child?_

_“Evelyn, get your things, please,” you asked her, and she obeyed. You knelt beside me, your face blank and you asked, “What’s happened?”_

_I give you the short and simple answer of “cancer” and it’s not enough. You ask about treatment options, what’s been attempted, why it’s not been working, and so on, and I’m a religious women, Mr. Brooks, not a physician, so I wasn’t able to provide the in-depth answers that you needed except that the cells in my bloodstream were no longer behaving as they should._

_“I love you, Sister Emma! You’ll feel better soon!” Evelyn shouted, kissing me one time before hurling herself into your arms. As the two of you leave, I notice she’s had you sign your name as well._

_Imagine my surprise when, a few months later, the Bishop comes to me, explaining that if I choose to accept, someone has paid for my travel, lodging, and medical expenses to be apart of an experimental treatment study at Gunma University in Japan. An anonymous donor, but one who has assured the Bishop that I’ve been accepted into the study, despite my old age._

_I can only imagine someone like the mysterious Mr. Brook would have the resources to orchestrate such an endeavor._

_So, thank you, Mr. Brook. Thank you for reminding me of my own sinfulness, and thank you for your provision. The Lord works in mysterious ways, as they say. His ways are not ours. You’ve changed my heart, and it’s possible that you’ve prolonged my life, God willing._

_Through you, I have been healed. And possibly, medically and physically, I’ll be healed because of your generosity._

_All of my love to you and to Evelyn,_  
_Sister Emma Bohren_

_April 1, 2012_

_Emma,_  
_God doesn’t heal people. Science and money do._  
_xo,_  
_RB_


	8. The Good Deeds of Jim Moriarty Part IV | Some gore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly after Jim and Evelyn move to Texas, their neighbors' cat is hit by a car. Evelyn is traumatized but fully believes her daddy can fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some minor cat gore here that you may wanna avoid. The cat lives, of course, but Jim's a bastard about it. He's also a bastard about Amber and Susan. Also some dark AIDS-related humor because I would imagine young Jim caught a lot of flack for being gay as a teenager at the height of the panic in the 80s and 90s. (Seriously, did you know that AIDS was originally called Gay-Related Immune Deficiency??? Like???)
> 
> Inspired by an incident where my friend's daughter's balloon sailed up into the sky, but the daughter fully believed I was capable of retrieving it.

_May 2012_

I don’t care for or about animals, and I say that with complete inclusivity. I see no difference between an ant, a dog, a human. I mean, obviously, there are differences, but every single one of the creatures listed can be smushed with a proper stomping, and every single one has inborn instincts that drive them. 

We’re born into skin and skeletons that are controlled by hormones and chemistry, and I thought I’d been lucky enough to avoid such nonsense, but here I am, covering Evelyn’s eyes, knowing that the neighbor’s cat won’t clear the wheel of the moving van in time, while trying to appear horrified. 

The legless cat howling and bleeding all over the pavement in panicked zigzags doesn’t bother me a bit; but some unknown instinct bubbles up in me before the event even happens and I know that the sight will bother Evelyn--maybe even traumatize her. Never before had I considered that gore was too much for a three year old; suddenly, it just rings true and as a caregiver with an inexplicable interest in Evelyn’s well-being, I have to cover her eyes. Instinct commands it. 

Suddenly the Lesbians are screaming and their offspring are joining them and our little corner of the neighborhood has suddenly erupted into bloody chaos. I have to conceal my laughter, because one, that would be inappropriate and two, because Evelyn’s tiny fingernails are digging into my hand. She’s starting to panic. Her breaths are fast and choppy. 

Before she can get in the full swing, I lift her up and tuck her head beneath my chin. “It’s all right, my dear. Deep breaths for daddy. That’s my girl.” 

“Tigger!” she squeals. “Wha’ happen?!” 

Oh shit. This is one of those fucking awful parenting moments that you can’t avoid fucking up your kid. One the one hand you have, “Tigger is on a farm now where he can catch mice all day,” where your kiddo has no concept of death until one day the stark reality of a human-shaped void is just there, and you’ve no control over it, and they’re unpreparedness leaves them crushed; on the other, “Tigger has probably run off to die, love,” where your impressionable, innocent child has to come to grips with the reality of death and be fearful that at any moment, tragedy will strike. 

It’s a lose-lose situation. 

I hesitate. She tangles her arms around my neck, clinging tightly to me. “Daddy, fix ‘im!” 

“I can’t darling, I don’t even know where he went.” And if I did find him, I’d probably just bash his skull in, because cats slowly dying in agony is actually the worst sound in the world. Dying animals, on the whole, don’t faze me, but, dear me, do cats linger. 

She looks up at me with wet eyes, her bottom lip trembling. “Daddy, fix ‘im.” 

Because she thinks that I can. I was once the most powerful man in the world. To Evelyn, I still am. 

Poor idiot child. 

My sweet little girl. 

I set her back on the ground and motion to the Lesbians to come over. Evelyn clings to my hand, tapping my knuckles anxiously. My chest feels like it will burst every time she mimics my tics. She’s so clever, so observant. 

“Amber and I will go find Tigger. If he’s alive when we find him, we’ll take him to the emergency vet. Evey, go inside with Susan.” 

She wraps her arms around my leg, squeezing. There’s panic in her eyes again. “No, I wan’ go with you.” 

“No, darling.” 

“Please?” 

She doesn’t want to be away, and honestly I don’t want her to either. Ever again. Sometimes I stay up all night watching her sleep, counting her breaths, tapping her fingers, neurons releasing norepinephrine making my heart pound and my limbs tense like I’m actually afraid of something. 

Before Evelyn, I never felt anxious. Now I’m constantly anxious. 

Lesbian 1 must see my struggle, because she takes Evelyn’s hand and explains to her that this is a job for adults. Evey protests that she’s “big” but follows nonetheless. I blow a kiss her way. 

Lesbian 2 is already following the trail of blood, clicking her tongue in an attempt to summon the cat. I replay the incident in my head, then kneel over the abandoned leg on the blacktop. Even in May, the cement is so hot, the blood is sizzling into a Texan blood pudding. 

From a purely scientific point of view, taking out of the account my own sadism, I’m impressed at the coincidence of the situation. The tire caught the cat’s leg at just the right angle to sever it from the hip, effectively shredding through muscle, tissue, and joint. In a million years, it would be almost impossible to see that again. From the look of it, though, it would appear the leg was torn off at the joint. I think maybe, if the beast hadn’t darted off in a panic, the leg may have simply been disconnected. 

I pick up the remaining piece to examine it. Lesbian 2 gasps then follows it up with a saddish sound. People do get so sentimental about their pets. 

We follow the zigzags of blood through my yard into our other neighbor’s yard who I haven’t met and have no desire to meet, unless he’s an attractive detective who survived his jump from a hospital roof. 

I can’t help but laugh when my brain whispers _kill sherlock_. Damned serotonin hasn’t fully formed new pathways to “end” obsessive thoughts. _We’ve already accomplished that; moving on. . ._

Tigger is under a stranger’s porch, its breath shallow and ragged. It doesn’t react when I reach for him. 

“Is he dead?” Lesbian 2 asks. Does she understand how pitiful she sounds? Pull yourself together, woman. 

“Shock.” I grab it by the scruff of its neck and pull it back into the sunshine. The fur is still warm from the sun but its mouth is open and its gums are cool to the touch. The skin beneath fur is also chill. “Do you have anything to apply pressure to the wound?” 

“I--I could run into the house! I’m sure there’s something!” 

God, I hate panicked women. I try to sound neighborly when I say, “Perhaps the bandana around your head, dear?” 

She reaches up to touch it. “Oh! Right! Yes!” She rips it from her forehead, bringing strands of hair along with it and hands it to me. 

Why, yes, I would love to touch your sweaty, undertreated hair while I bandage your fucking cat. This is why London is more my speed. I lived beside my neighbors for seven years--we never said a word to one another. I move into a house in Galveston and suddenly there’s five pecan pies on my doorstep and two Baptist Lesbians in my business. 

I glare at her but bandage the beast anyway. It’s difficult because the wound is concave, rather than being on an outer bodypart, but we manage. 

Lesbian 2’s eyes are wide and her freckled face has gone white. “There’s so much blood,” she whispers and starts to waver. 

For a moment, I contemplate leaving her here to faint. “Amber,” I say in a gruff voice, one that effectively pulls her out of her vagal syncope. “Go and fetch the car. Quickly, dear.” 

She scurries away on weak legs, leaving me holding her bleeding, dying creature. I should just bash its brains in. _“Oh, so sorry, dear, I dropped him. Yes, it is unusual that the force of the fall was enough to brain him, but these things do happen. . .”_

Lesbian 2 meets me in the cul-de-sac, the white mini-van full of children, including mine. 

“Get in, Daddy! Quick!” 

Oooh, I do _not_ want to go with the Lesbians to the emergency vet. At all. “Evelyn, I think this is a family matter. Let’s go ins--” 

“Oh no!” Lesbian 1 counters me. “Oh Addison! You are family!” 

_No I’m fucking not._ Texans are a strange breed of primate. Overly friendly, casually bigoted, inanely talkative. . . 

The cat mewls pitifully in my arms, prompting Evelyn and the other small children to squeal in horror. Evelyn’s profound look of horror seals the deal, and I slide into the juice-stained, biscuit-crumb-littered back seat. 

~~

Lucky for me, Addison O’Neill has a sense of style that makes his clothes easily replaceable. Cat blood stains my khakis and tee. I find myself wondering about feline AIDS, though. My dear old bitch of a mother always told me my lifestyle would lead to AIDS . . . I almost wish there was a Hell so that I could enjoy her eternal damnation. (The circumstances surrounding her death were not dissimilar to Tigger's current situation. The only real difference was the involvement of a good hard shove and a train.) 

I shouldn’t be chuckling. I turn it into a cough. 

Lesbian 1 is comforting her demon children, who are wailing and gnashing their teeth, and she doesn’t seem to realize that her fawning over them and her own anxiety is making their anxiety worse. Evelyn has buried her head in my neck, her tiny form buzzing with apprehension. Her fingers tap my shoulder. _One, three, one, four, one, two._

That’s my pattern, the one I tap in when I’m thinking. That paternal pride bubbles up again. Any time I interact with other people’s children, I intuitively know that they, as parents, are jealous of how much better Evelyn is at everything than their shitty children. 

I literally have the best child in the whole entire world, and I found her on the docks in Liverpool. 

Lesbian 2 comes out of the exam room, eyes red. Lesbian 1 dashes over to her, her gaggle of offspring following. 

The wailing intensifies. “You have to! You have to, mama!” 

“Amber, Tigger is family!” 

“Susan, please don’t do this in front of them.” 

Evelyn’s fingers stop tapping and grip the short hairs on the back of my neck. She listens intently. 

“Babe, there is just no way.” 

Evelyn pulls back to look me in the face. Her eyes are wide and red with tears. She swallows thickly. “Fix ‘im.” 

“There’s nothing I can do, darling.” 

The fear behind her eyes shatters every neural pathway I’ve ever developed. One day Evelyn will learn that I’m not magical, that I can’t fix everything, that, just like everyone and everything else, I’m bound by the laws of biology and physics. But, as they say, today is not that day. 

Because I left her once and I lost her once, and if she still thinks I can do anything, I’m not ready to destroy that illusion. Poor, dumb baby. I set her down, making no promises, and walk up to the screaming family. I drag the saner Lesbian aside. 

“What’s happened, Amber?” 

Through hysterics, she tells me that Tigger has lost a lot of blood, that he’ll need a transfusion, that they’ll need to stymie the bleeding where his leg used to be, _la la la, I’m sorry I asked_. “Okay,” I stop her blubbering, putting on the Nice Neighbor mask, “so, does the vet believe it--the cat--is salvageable?” 

She shrugs. “He doesn’t know. He’s not sure. He has some internal bleeding, too.” 

Jesus, get to the point, woman. “So what is he suggesting?” 

“Surgery.” 

“So, are you going to do the surgery?” 

“He’s an old cat, and it’s going to cost more than my car, and it’s just not financially sound.” 

I shrug. If money is the issue here, then Evey’s right, I can fix this. I don’t want to withstand the flood of gratefulness and hugs and jackassery that will follow telling Lesbian 2 that, though. “Evey, love, come here, please.” (I’ll be damned if she doesn’t see that I’m actively fixing this beast.) I brush past Lesbian 2, through the exam room, and through the door that leads to the “back” where all the interesting stuff goes on. 

I sign as a guarantor for the surgery and transfusion payments. 

~~

Evelyn is beside me, both of us crouched behind the sofa. “Daddy, why we hidin’?” she whispers. 

I don’t know how to answer that. _"We’re hiding from the Lesbians”_ seems like something one shouldn’t say to their child, especially in light of Texas' general feelings towards homosexuality. “Because I have a headache, and I don’t want to talk with Miss Amber and Miss Susan.” 

I can hear them outside my frontdoor, discussing if I’m here or not, if they should leave the cake on my doorstep, if they should send a text about having me over for dinner, et cetera, et cetera. This is why the side of the angels is so boring. It’s full of tedious gratitude and polite interactions and social ceremony and it makes me wish that I hadn’t used blanks to shoot myself on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. 

Evelyn seems to accept this answer. She rests her head on my arm. “To clarify, my rascally child, you may not do the same to me.” 

She giggles, and an iceberg somewhere on the other side of the world melts, and I kiss her cheek. 

“But we’ll go over to see Tigger at some point this evening, okay?” 

She tenses up with excitement, her eyes going wide. “Be gentle with ‘im,” she reminds herself. 

“Right, because he’s still healing.” 

She nods. She taps her fingers along my arm. The Lesbians leave. “‘Cause you fixed ‘im.” 

Evelyn believes I can do anything, and her faith in me convinces my reptile brain that she’s right. Of course, she’s not. But she doesn’t need to know that. Especially when I’ve failed her twice before. 

Not that it matters that I’ve failed her. Not that she matters at all. 

Being a father is fucking horrible. No wonder mine drank himself to death. Well, that’s not fair, is it? He was actively killing himself with alcohol but the poison definitely sped up the process. 

“Just for you, angel.” 

Evelyn laces her small fingers between mine, then taps the tips with her other hand. My breath catches in my chest. 

“Daddy?” 

“Yes?” 

“Why we still hidin’?” 

“Are you bored?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You know what? Let’s go to the planetarium.” 

Her eyes light up and her smile infects my face. I rest my forehead against hers, not quite ready to disrupt this moment of hand-holding and whispers. She butts upward, cackling. “Let’s go!”


	9. Not Fluff Evelyn gets a shot and chaos ensues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn gets a shot, and Jim has a hard time with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 11/21: Chapter inserted before this chapter. If you're looking for the update, go back a chapter.
> 
> This is overly dramatic and caricature-esque, I know, but the scene has been with me for a long time, so I thought I should write it. I think Jim has a hard time with this because he feels like he's failed to protect her in the past, and now he's causing her pain, and it's just a lot.
> 
> This is, I've been informed, not fluff. To me, it's humorous and silly.

_July 2013_

It’s rare that Jim calls me by himself. I mean, sometimes he’ll call with Evelyn (and oh my God, Evelyn can call me by herself, because she’s the smartest little baby in the world), but I can’t even think of time off the top of my head that he’s called me without her since her abduction. 

So, I try not to panic when he videocalls me without Evelyn in the screen. 

“Everything all right?” 

He looks flustered. I can’t tell where he is. It looks like a chain fast food restaurant, but I can’t imagine Jim’s taken her to one of those. “When are you going to be back?” 

Instinctively, I feel myself recoil. I like being there, don’t get me wrong, but on my terms. And I don’t like feeling crowded. The great thing about my relationships with Jim and Evelyn and Anisa and Janine is that there are no strings attached. And now Jim’s asking questions about my schedule. Like he _expects_ back. 

“Why?” 

He groans, scrubbing his hand over his face. He does a double take to the right. “Evelyn Moriarty! No! You know better! Because they have red in them!” He looks at me with a wild glare. “Hang on.” 

He sets the phone down and I get a view of the ceiling and the corner of a frog-themed logo. Oh, they’re getting frozen yogurt. 

Jim returns a moment later, chocolate-stained gummy bears sticking to his hand. He props the phone up on something. To someone off camera he says, “I’ll pay for them later, Jesus! She has an allergy to red!” 

“What’s going on?” 

“When are you coming back to Galveston?” 

“Why do you assume I am?” 

“Because you’re disgustingly loyal and you love my little lady, who, by the way, run into the car park shouting, ‘He’s not my daddy!’ at her doctor’s visit today. And because she’s black and I’m white, the police were called! I almost got fucking arrested for abducting a minor!” 

I break into laughter. Evelyn is a smart little girl. Jim tries not to smile. He’s secretly pleased with how manipulative his daughter is, even if it does make his life a bit more difficult. “Stop laughing.” 

“Why did you take her to get frozen yogurt if she did that? You always reward her bad behavior!” 

He snaps back defiantly, “It’s not a reward! She’s had a rough day! She had to get her DTaP shots today.” 

“So was the incident in the car park before or after her shots?” 

He purses his lips. “That’s difficult to answer. She hasn’t technically had her shot yet.” 

“Then why is she getting frozen yogurt?” I roll my eyes. “Jesus, Jim, you always do this. She just plays you, and you give her whatever she wants!” 

“She had to get some bloodwork done!” 

“So, what, you just let her off the hook for almost getting you arrested? Because she had some blood drawn?” 

He stares me straight in the eye, which is a strange feat considering it’s a videochat. “If you absolutely must know, we were escorted out, and the whole thing was very traumatic for her.” 

I crack up. “For what?!” 

“Sebastian Moran,” he says coldly during my giggle fit, “I need you to get back here and take Evelyn to get her shots. I’m not allowed past the waiting room anymore. And I don’t like the other doctors. This whole state is full of quacks!” 

I am fucking hysterical. I think I have tears seeping out of my face. “What in the seven unholy hells did you do?” 

He leans in to the screen and whispers, “They pricked her finger and she screamed and I panicked and we were asked to return with a different caregiver.” 

I can only imagine the havoc unleashed by a panicked Professor Moriarty. 

~~

It takes both Jim and me to wrestle Evelyn into the car and into her carseat, and the entire time she’s screaming like we’re jabbing hot needles beneath her fingernails. Thankfully, since it’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week, most of our--Jim’s--neighbors aren’t home, and the ones who are are too old to hear what’s happening. 

Jim sits in the back with her, trying to reassure her, but his own apprehension is only heightening hers. She’s having an absolute meltdown, saying things like, “You’re supposed to love me! You’re supposed to protect me! Why are you letting them hurt me again?” And Jim is pale and trying to reason with her, and the whole situation is like a piano wire that’s been over-tightened. 

“Evelyn, it’s not that bad, precious,” I tell her. “I got shots a year ago so I could go to Thailand.” 

Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, wide as saucers. “Izzat what happen’ to your face?” She motions to her own face, indicating the corresponding spaces where my scars are. 

“No that’s not what happened to my face.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was an angry, wounded tige--monkey.” I’d rather not tell Evelyn I got scarred by a tiger. “ _That_ hurt. Shots don’t hurt.” 

Jim kicks the back of my seat. “Don’t _lie_ to her!” 

“Yeah!” she parrots back. “Don’t lie!” 

“It’s not a lie, it’s not that bad. I promise.” 

Jim leans up to hiss in my ear, “You can’t tell her that! That is a lie! Your pain threshold is probably very different from a four year old’s.” 

“Jim, you’re just making this worse. I wish you hadn’t come.” We’d had a long argument about him joining us; but you don’t argue with Jim for results--he just does whatever the fuck he wants. 

Evelyn tries to make a run for it in the parking lot, but I’m faster and stronger. I carry her into the freezing waiting room, my sense assaulted with the smell of disinfectant and latex. They’ve tried to make it inviting, with a giant fish tank, and a film playing quietly on a giant screen, and readily available soft toys, but ultimately, none of the children present look comfortable. 

“Mr. O’Neill,” the receptionist says behind a sliding glass window, clearly unhappy to see him. 

“It’s _doctor_ ,” Jim sneers back. 

“You know what Dr. Collins told you.” 

“Dr. Collins can--” 

I spin him around and hand Evelyn to him. “Stop it! Go sit down!” He sulks away, murmuring to his daughter. “Hi,” I smile to the receptionist, doing my damnedest to smooth this over. I can’t drop everything I’m doing and come to Galveston every time Evelyn needs a check-up. “I’m the alternate caregiver for Evelyn. Her dad, her other dad. Papa. Sometimes she calls me Tiger, but that’s just left over from when she was, like, two. But we’re not, like, together. She just has two dads, but we’re not--I’m straight. I’m not gay.” 

The receptionist shoves a clipboard of papers at me, staring me dead in the eye. “Addison O’Neill cannot go back with her, and if he tries to, we’re calling the police. Again.” 

“I’ll do my best to keep him under control.” 

He glares at me, clearly disbelieving that I can control the mania of Dr. Addison O’Neill. 

~~

Evelyn absolutely freaked the fuck out when I tried to take her back to the examination room. She was gripping Jim’s shirt and screaming and crying, and Jim was crying, and it was scaring all the other kids in the waiting room, and it was just . . . insane. My experiences in Iraq were infinitely less traumatic than dragging Evelyn out of the waiting room. 

She gets under your skin. She knows the buttons to push. She’s telling me that I’m her Tiger, that I’m supposed to protect her, and that actually really fucking hurts my heart. When we get to the exam room, I ask the nurse to give us a minute. 

I take a knee so that I’m eye-level with my little lady. I try to take her hands, but she pulls them away. “Evelyn, listen to me. Look at me.” She purposely points her head in the opposite direction. “Evelyn, are you listening?” 

“No!” 

“Listen, I _am_ protecting you. I’m protecting you from all these nasty viruses and germs and diseases that used to kill little girls like you, okay?” 

She gives me a sidewise glance, like she’s not sure she believes me. 

“It might hurt a little, teeny bit, but only for a second, and it’ll keep you safe and healthy for a long time, okay?” Her posture loosens. She still won’t face me, but her arms drop to her sides. “I’m gonna tell the nurse to come back in and this will be over in twenty seconds, okay? You wanna count with me?” 

She shakes her head, still pouting. I motion the nurse back in. “Okay, I told her it will only take twenty seconds,” I explain. “So we’re gonna count.” 

The nurse, clearly tired of our high maintenance family, takes a seat next to Evelyn and rips open a cleansing cloth. I start counting. "One, two, three. . ." She takes Evelyn’s arm and cleans the site of the injection. 

Evelyn screams bloody murder, startling both the nurse and myself. “Keep going,” I tell the nurse. “She’s fine.” I get to my feet to brace myself against the door, because inevitably, her daddy is going to come try to "rescue" her. 

“IT HURTS!” Evelyn screeches. 

“No it doesn’t. She’s just cleaning the skin. It’s like a little bath.” 

The sounds of chaos emanate from the hallway. I hear pounding feet and the receptionist shouting, “Mr. O’Neill we talked about this!” 

“Let me go! I have to get her!” 

The nurse stares at me blankly. 

I try to placate her. “It’s okay, I’m--I’m blocking the door.” With perfect timing, Jim rams his bulk into the door only to be knocked backwards when it doesn’t give. “Just keep--keep going.” 

From the other side of the door comes Jim’s frantic line of questioning. “Evey?! Darling, are you okay? What’s happening?!” 

“Jim, she is fine!” 

Outside the room, I hear the receptionist and Jim arguing. 

“I wannan exemption! We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses!” 

“You _cannot_ be back here. I’m calling the police.” 

“Fine! Call them! I’ll sue your arse til kingdom come, you racist piece of shit!” And then there’s scratching at the door. “Let me in! Evelyn can you hear me? Are you okay?” 

The nurse sighs. “Am I doing this or not?” 

“Yes. Just--hang on, I gotta go make sure Daddy doesn’t get arrested.” I throw open the door, causing Jim to fall into the room. I grab him by his shirt collar and drag him into the hall. “Just two seconds, okay?” 

Jim tries to brush by me, but I grab him and shut the door. “Sir? Sir?” I call after the receptionist, who is already on his mobile. “Can you not do that please? He’s--he’s got PTSD, things get to him, just give me a second, please?” 

The receptionist raises his eyebrow, thinking it over. “Hang on. I’ll call you back if I need you.” He hangs up and waits expectantly. 

“Ji--Addison. You’re making this worse. You’re scaring her. You’ve got to calm down. She’s--” 

I’m cut off by another glass-shattering screech from the exam room, followed closely by Jim’s own scream. He makes for the door again, but I grab him, and he collapses into my arms, burying his face in my shoulder. 

The nurse opens the door, looking satisfied with herself. “All done.” 

As soon as Evelyn sees Jim, she bursts into tears and then Jim bursts into tears, and the whole damn thing devolves into screaming and crying and the receptionist trying to drag Jim back to the waiting room. 

~~

I get in the driver’s side and slam the door. Evelyn is in Jim’s lap, and both are still sniffling. “I have never been so embarrassed in my whole entire life.” 

“It still hurts!” Evelyn shouts at me, pointing to the bright green plaster on her arm. 

Jim nuzzles his cheek against her hair. “My poor little lady.” 

“They’ve asked us to never come back.” 

“Good. They’re con artists, masquerading around as health professionals!” Jim frowns. “Did you get the lollies?” 

I hesitate. I shake my head, ashamed of my own weakness. I hold up the two Tootsie Pops. “Neither one of you deserves these.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, there's a very lovely [artist](https://hippano.tumblr.com/) who I've commissioned to do a piece of the little makeshift family, and I'm so excited and it's already awesome.
> 
> Just some history: I have a friend who's Asian-American and she has two kids with her very white, very Northwestern European-looking husband, who is a stay-at-home dad. Being responsible parents, they told their kids about safety around strangers and that if anyone ever tries to make them go anywhere or if they're ever approached by a stranger, they should shout, "This isn't my daddy/mommy!" and make a big scene. Where the story (in my opinion, hilariously) derails is when Dad wouldn't get his little boy any candy at the hardware store. So little boy decides that now is the best possible time to implement what he learned about stranger-danger. Naturally, store employees were not about to let a white dude walk off with two Asian-American children, one of whom was screaming that this wasn't his daddy, and the cops had to be called, and then mom, and it was just the greatest story I've ever heard in my whole life.
> 
> I guess the reason I'm sharing that is to highlight the humor in uncomfortable parenting situations and the cleverness of children. It's not intended to be political or a statement on racism or anything like that, so please take it for what it is.


	10. Beach and Father Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set before Basher and Jim are an item and before Sherlock returns. Just fluffy little family time at the beach.

_July 2013_

Sometimes I feel emotionally bloated. Those time almost always involve Evelyn. Like the first time she said “Dada” I was a hysterically proud father. All these feelings of paternity, victory, pride, love, et cetera, they just popped up, and I had no idea what to do with them so I just laughed and hugged the little one as tight as I could without suffocating her. It’s uncomfortable, handling all that, handling the flood of chemicals and hormones. It makes my skin feel too tight. Or maybe it’s my ribcage that is too tight. Maybe my lungs are too big. Either way, something needs to be ripped apart to let these feelings escape. 

Of course, you can’t do that--that’s not how chemicals and neurotransmitters work. 

I manage those moments where everything feels so intense that my body can’t process it. 

But then there’s this new element that’s just emerged as I watch Basher play with Evelyn in the surf. It’s so normal, so ordinary. Fathers all along the beach are doing the exact same thing. And yet watching my former employee play with my perfect little angel makes me . . .ugh, I can’t even describe it. 

Basher’s strong arms lift the small, giggling child out of the water. She squeals as he tosses her over an oncoming wave. They’ve been playing at this for fifteen minutes, yet neither one appears to be bored. 

Something in my reptile brain is ecstatic about the sight of them. Tiger playing with his cub. My child. Evelyn points to me on the shore under the umbrella where I’m hiding from the sun. (For the record, I was playing with her while Basher flirted with some college girls operating a slushy cart, but I swear, I could feel my skin wrinkle and spot beneath the tanning oil. I don’t tan, unfortunately. Just redden and age.) I wave at her, unable to control the idiotic grin on my face. 

And then Basher turns to see where she’s pointing. With his stupid fucking haircut, water dripping off the choppy bits, sliding down his neck and those delicious broad shoulder, sliced with scars, plumped with muscle, sparkling in the sun and soaked swim trunks clinging to his --- that’s enough. 

The scars on his face shift as he flashes that toothy, absurdly charming smile. He and Evelyn both wave back to me. My heart clenches. It’s too much, and it feels so warm. It’s like shooting up; softer and subtler but overwhelming nonetheless. 

This is so ordinary. I know it is. I want to hate it. But it’s quaint and sweet and satisfies some primitive instinct for community or some such nonsense. I suppose ultimately none of us are above evolution and biology. 

“Come play with us, Daddy!” Evelyn shouts over the waves and the noise of other beachgoers. 

I’m frozen at the prospect of something so boring, so perfect. “I just reapplied, love.” 

She spits her tongue out at me and hops into Papa Tiger’s arms. Even from a distance, I see the mischievous glint in her eye as she whispers in Basher’s ear. He throws his head back and laughs. 

And then the bastard has the audacity to sprint up the shore at me, cackling. He sweeps large amounts of sand towards me with his stupid feet, but my detestation of sand makes me faster. I’m on my feet, out of the chair as the copious amounts of sand hit the backrest. “Sebastian Moran!” I glare at him, livid and ready to tear into him when wet sand slams into my flank, its source just out my periphery. Not that I need to see it to know that my darling little daughter who I should’ve left on the docks has just nailed me with a pail of goddamned wet sand. 

The grainy bits seep into my swimsuit as I stand stock still, trying not to lose my temper. Basher is laughing hysterically at the shock on my face, and Evelyn is prancing around proudly announcing her success with, “Got you, daddy!” 

When he can compose himself, Basher eyes me, watching for signs that I’ll murder Evelyn. When he finds none, he breaks into hysterics again. 

“She’s a brilliant tactician,” he tells me between giggles. 

“Yessss,” she hisses back, hurling her sandy little body at my waist and squeezing me tightly. “Got you, daddy! I’m brilliant!” 

When I look down at her, she gives me this dark smile, one that looks so much like mine, it reawakens that emotional bloating. “And now you _hafta_ come play with us.” 

Rotten little bitch. I am heart-achingly proud of her. She’s mastered the distract and flank routine, and she roped in a bigger, more powerful person to assist her, and her goal was not only to annoy me but to get me back in the water with her. She’s created chaos to get what she wants, to create her own order. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute, little miss,” I tell her through tight lips. She cackles, and goddamn her, it has the same cadence as Basher’s. 

She grabs my hand and leads me past Basher. “Payback’s a bitch,” I tell him softly. 

He winks. “I just follow Moriarty’s orders,” he answers, following us back to the waves. 

~~

Basher bursts through my bedroom door, obscenities spewing from his lips. 

“Hush,” I snap at him. “You’ll wake Evelyn.” 

“Why the fuck is there _sand_ in my bed?” 

“I would say go ask your daughter, but it’s almost midnight, and I’ll poison you if you wake her up.” 

His eyes flash with a mixture of paternal pride and rage. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” 

“I am. But _that_ ,” I motion to the wet sand clinging to his pyjamas, “was Evelyn’s idea. She carried the sand in water bottles and hid them in the bottom of the cooler.” 

“You put her up to it.” 

“No. I told her I needed to get even. She came up with the rest of it on her own.” 

“Ooh, Father and Daughter Consulting Criminals. Arsehole.” He slams the door shut behind him. I lock it just in case he decides to shake his sandy sheets off in my room.


	11. Jim Is a Mastermind and Basher Is Dumb Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just stupid fluff where Jim tries to include his boyfriend in his criminal activities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Set during this chapter.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954483/chapters/25411215)

_September 2015_

Jim tries, after our conversation in Florida, bless him. He tries to include me, tries to brainstorm with me, but the truth is, he’s just on a completely unrelatable level. 

He’s brought out a smart white board, one that he likely stole from his office, and is drawing all sorts of equations for my benefit, but I don’t benefit from it because I’m not a chemist or a physicist or whatever these numbers relate to. He’s talking quickly and excitedly, and I’m starting to realize that he’s actually talking about two very different things and two very different criminal activities. 

The information on the right has to do with altered vyvanse and the other has to do with the a security code for something--maybe a bank or a hospital. And my mad genius is bouncing back and forth between the two. 

“. . . thequestionthenbecomeshowdoweintroducethe1-octen-3-olintoourproductwithoutalertingourcustomers? AndIthinkthismayactuallybeaseven.” His wrist flies over the board at the speed of light. Suddenly he spins around, pointing an accusing finger at me. “I hope you appreciate this because it’s _really_ slowing down my process.” 

I cover my mouth, flattered. Aw, my sweet boyfriend. He’s trying to include me. “Babe, I’m not even sure what you’re talking about.” 

His face reddens and he slams his fist down on the dinner table, black eyes blazing with all the fury of hell. “You asked me to include you; the least you can do is understand!” 

Seven years ago, that display of rage would terrify me. Now, though, it’s just endearing. “You’re cute when you’re angry.” 

He purses his lips in indignance, caught off guard by the compliment. “Damn right I’m cute,” he snips back with a blush. Then he spins back around and continues scribbling and rambling on about vyvanse and breaking into what I’m discerning is a private laboratory. “Cartercouldpotentiallybeadecentallysowemaynothavetobreakinbut--” 

“Jim, sweetheart, I still have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know what 1-octen-3-ol is.” 

He roars out his frustration, kicking the whiteboard across the floor. “If you’re going to be my partner you’re going to have to be smarter! Stop grinning at me, idiot!” 

“C’mere.” 

“No!” 

I grab his wrist and pull him into my lap. He grumbles about my stupidity as I wrap my arms around him and kiss his forehead. “My adorable mad scientist.” 

He settles, pleased at the touch, though he’d never express it. He stays in my lap with an unbudging scowl.


	12. Disney Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little family discusses being Disney Princesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea when this is set. I just play this scene over and over again in my head.

It’s a rainy day, so we’re driving Evelyn to school. Jim is in the passenger seat, plotting murders or playing chess on his phone.

It’s relatively quiet until Evelyn asks, “Daddy, if you were a Disney Princess, who would you be?” 

Jim sighs, seriously considering the question. “Ariel.” 

“Makes sense.” I side-eye him. “Saw a black-haired guy one time, fell head over heels, and stalked him relentlessly,” I say softly so Evelyn can’t hear. Then I add, “You hoard stuff and like sparkly things.” 

Jim glares at me. “Shut up, Basher. I like to swim. That makes you Flounder.” 

“The fish?” 

“Yes. The blond, gay best friend.” 

“You’re such a di--jerk. I’m not gay.” I look back at Evelyn in the rearview mirror. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” 

“Papa, what about you?” 

“Daddy just said I’m Flounder.” 

“But if you were a Princess. . .” 

“I’m not a girl.” 

Evelyn huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose the way Jim does when he’s fed up with stupid questions. “Well, you're also notta fish! You gotta follow the parameters of the question.” 

I shake my head. “I don’t know. What’s Aladdin’s girlfriend’s name?” 

“Jasmine.” 

“Her, I guess.” 

“Because you ran away from a wealthy home and got caught up working with a streetrat?” Jim lowers his voice. “Or because you’re always running around in so few clothes?” He motions to the vest I’m wearing. 

I scowl at him. “I was working out before the rain came. No, I’m Jasmine because I like the heat. It gets pretty hot in parts of Iran. It's great. And she has a tiger.” 

Jim rolls his eyes at me. “Who would you be, angel?” 

“Tiana.” 

“Why Tiana?” 

“Because she’s the boss.” 

Jim beams proudly. “That’s my girl.” 


	13. The Good Deeds of Jim Moriarty, Part V | some extremely homophobic language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basher's sister Carrie stops by, bringing with her all the Moran baggage. 
> 
> Jim saves an orphanage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: Extremely homophobic character, religious beliefs, mentions of rape, panic attacks, etc
> 
> This is definitely not a fix-it fic for the Moran Siblings. Carrie will continue to be a homophobic bitch and Basher will continue to love her and Jim won't kill her because he loves his Tiger.

_July 2016_

Basher's an odd sort. Intuitive and decisive in a crisis, he finds himself awkward and uneasy when he has to wait, especially when it's bad news. He's pacing throughout our flat, but he won't say he's pacing; he'll say he's getting water, checking on Evey, putting the dishes away, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. His jaw is set tight, an air of anxiety surrounding him. 

Because right now, there's nothing he can do but wait. 

And that kills him. 

God, I want to kill him. 

"Papa," Evelyn finally says, "be still!" 

He side-eyes her and says nothing. He gets up to check the window for the nth time. 

"Papa!" 

"Hush! Carrie might get lost." 

"She has a GPS, I'm sure," I pipe in. 

Basher glares at me. "She was supposed to text me when she landed, but she hasn't. We should've met her at the airport." This is directed at me, of course, as if he's not in on the whole criminal bit. Places like airports--one has to be careful. If you show up often enough, people will remember your face. And the more you appear, the more suspicious they get. Then they notice you're around just before or just after something bad happens. And someone decides to be a hero and tip off the police, which, in reality, is fine, I love a good chase, but with our work still in its infancy, I'm not ready to take such risks. 

Also, I don't want to meet fucking Girl Moran. 

Suddenly, Basher's caged me in in my armchair, his face inches from mine, facing away from Evey. "Did you blow up her plane?" he mouths. 

I scoff. "I don't care enough to put forth the effort, Tiger." 

"Don't call me that when she's here." 

_Oooh, and that is why I don't want her here_. Moving to a new country, a new continent has been useful in ripping from Basher his heterosexual tendencies with only the occasional slip-up here and there. His sister, being a conservative Catholic-turned-Pentecostal wife of a pastor, has already reset him to the Basher I knew ten years ago, and she hasn't even bloody arrived yet. 

I think. . .if I'm honest--with myself, not with Basher or Evelyn--that triggers my own insecurities. Basher is, for all intents and purposes, straight, and he has to work at being attracted to me, to suppress the urge to pull away when he bottoms, and what if his goddamned bitch of a sister comes in here and he decides he's had enough playing gay and leaves? 

"Are you ashamed of me?" I ask, daring him. Once again, I find myself trying to anger him and I'm not sure why. 

He storms back to the window, arms crossed over his chest. "No, but I don't wanna rub it in her face." 

"You're not responsible for her discomfort." 

"I'm not responsible for yours either." 

The thought of deveining my fiance enters my mind, not for the first time today. The insecurity tightens across my chest, and I think maybe I start to feel it in my fingertips. 

"Oh fuck, she's here." He pounces, but he's not sure on what to pounce, so he's holding his face and turning in circles on one heel, unsure if he go out to greet her or put the kettle on or get Evelyn ready. "God, she's here." 

My big bad soldier is brought to his knees by his holy-roller sister. 

"Goddammit!" he shouts. "I don't wanna do this. I changed my mind." 

"I'll tell her." 

"No! Sit back down!" He takes a deep breath. 

"Why does Papa get to curse?" Evelyn asks, deeply offended that she's not extended the same courtesy. 

"Because he's having a nervous breakdown." 

"I am not." He throws open the door before Augusta "Carrie" Caroline Mason nee Moran can even knock. 

Her relatively attractive, if aged, face melts from one of prepared pleasantry to hideous sobbing. "Bash," she sobs, and the two are suddenly locked together. 

Ugh. Families. This is what normal families do. 

Clearly uncomfortable with the outburst, Evelyn abandons her place on the floor where she was relacing her cleats and leans against my armchair to whisper, "What's going on?" 

"Another nervous breakdown from the looks of it." 

Basher breaks away from his sobbing sister and the two are whispering in urgent tones. Because the threshold of our front door is the best place for a private conversation (sarcasm implied, for those of you who are idiots and can’t infer). Basher hugs her again and she buries her face in his chest. 

I look away from the bizarre pantomime, returning my attention to my mobile. Basher escorts her through the living room to the kitchen, not even bothering to introduce us. 

Up until this point, I had no desire for formal introductions. Now, however, my homophobic arsehole fiance is absolutely going to introduce me and our goddamned daughter to his homophobic arsehole sister. 

A tight smile on my face, I take Evelyn’s hand. “Come, dear, let’s go meet Aunt Carrie.” 

“I don’t want to.” She furrows her brow. She looks so much like me; I have to pause to wait for the heart-melting to cease before I can return to being a petty prick. 

“I don’t either, but it’s polite, and Papa seems to have forgotten his manners.” 

Eager at the idea of calling out her dear Papa, she bounds into the kitchen, shouting, “HEY! YOU’RE BEING RUUUUDE!” 

As I round the corner, I see Basher at the stove, preparing tea and Carrie in _my chair_. I tense up. 

“I’m sorry, darling, Carrie is having a bit of a crisis,” Papa tells her, attempting to appease her, but it’s clear that all his energies are pinpointed on his sister. 

“And that’s a reason to be rude?” I challenge him. 

His eyes meet mine and flash with rage. I maintain his gaze. With gritted teeth, he tells me, “Carrie met with Augustus, Jim. Can we have some space?” 

“No.” 

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine, goddammit!” He motions to me with an exaggerated bow. “This is my boyfriend--” He stumbles over the word, the first time in nearly a year, and my chest feels like it’s caught in a vice-- “Jim. Jim, this is my sister, Carrie.” 

I regret this. I don’t wanna meet Carrie. I just didn’t want Basher to sweep me under the rug. And now I _have to_ meet her, formally. I just wanted her to meet me, not the other way around. I don’t give a shit about her. 

Taking on a kind, friendly persona (because that’s what people do), I walk up to her and extend my hand. “Hello, Carrie. It’s wonderful to finally meet you. Basher’s told me quite a bit about you.” 

Sniffling and dabbing my nice clean cloth napkins against her snotty nose, she accepts my handshake. I want to run to the bathroom immediately to scrub the germs from my skin, but, well, that would be rude. “Hi Jim,” she answers weakly, tears still streaming down her face. 

Good God, I thought the British were supposed to be reserved folk. I thought Basher just had a temper but apparently his whole family is shit at containing themselves. 

“And this is Evelyn. She’s our daughter.” He stumbles over “our” as well. I’ll carve his heart out of his ribcage. Who the fuck does he think he is being ashamed of us? Of our family? Isn’t he the one that’s supposed to value family above all else? 

Oh. Wait. Carrie’s his family too. 

It’s with startling fury that I find myself questioning, _Does she trump us?_

You know what? Both of them. We’ll have both their hearts and we’ll hang them on the refrigerator, Evelyn and me. It’ll be a nice father-daughter arts-and-crafts project. 

_You kissed me first you fucking bastard._

Insecurities float up inside of me like bubbles in a glass of champagne, and when they reach my brain, they transform into rage. 

I come back to myself to see Evelyn shaking Carrie’s hand. 

“I hope we’re not a surprise.” 

Girl Moran smears her mascara all over her face with my napkin. “No. Bash told me.” 

“Why are you crying?” Evelyn asks gracelessly. 

This causes Girl Moran to burst into a new set of sobs and tears. Jesus Christ. How much mascara has she put on that it’s _still_ streaming down her face? She can’t go weep in someone else’s kitchen? 

Basher grabs my arm, the touch lacking any real intimacy. His eyes are blazing. “Jim, what is your problem?” he demands in a soft voice. 

“Kiss me.” 

“What?” 

“Kiss me right now.” 

He groans. But he complies. And it’s not just a peck on the cheek or lips tapping mine--it’s a decent kiss. He fists my collar, annoyed with me, and pulls me to him and he kisses me the way he kisses me goodbye in the morning. Soft, no urgency, no tongue, but full, his lips covering mine. 

It quiets the insecurities enough that I can say, “Evey, let’s finish with your cleats while Papa and Aunt Carrie get settled.” 

“Thank you,” Basher snips, giving me a pointed look. 

“You’re welcome.” 

~~

When Evelyn’s finished with her cleats, I hand her whatever handheld videogame she’s got currently and send her to her room. Hashtag good parenting. But I want to eavesdrop on the siblings Moran, and I’d rather not Evelyn join me lest she hear something traumatizing. 

The patriarch of the Moran family, Augustus, is not a pleasant man. I knew him. In fact, I found out about his son through him. He approached me regarding his son’s dishonorable discharge, and in return he did some work for me with the North Koreans. Thinking back on it, I think as soon as he showed me the photo of Basher, I fell in love. Strong jaw, bright blue eyes, scarred face, broad shoulders . . . . 

I take for granted sometimes just how handsome Basher is. 

That’s neither here nor there, though. I don’t want Evelyn to hear about someone’s father raping them or snapping kiddie porn photos for a US senator. 

Once she’s gone, I creep to the kitchen threshold and listen. 

“. . . such a bad idea, I know it was. I just thought--I don’t know what I thought. I don’t know why--” Girl Moran is sobbing again. 

Basher’s rage is evident in the loud sigh he lets out. “Jesus, Carrie, I mean--” Another loud sigh. I hear him flop back in his chair. “That was so stupid. Why would you even think--” 

She cuts him off, nearly shouting, her temper matching his. “Thanks, Seb, thanks a lot. I really appreciate your support. Augustus calling me stupid wasn’t enough; you doing it has really helped. So thanks for that.” 

“Carrie, Jesus--” 

“Stop saying that!” 

“Carrie, sit down. I’m sorry. Look, I’m sorry. I’m apologizing. Please. Just sit, ok?” 

“I didn’t come here to get berated.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

“I thought you of all people would be understanding.” 

“I just said I was sorry.” 

There’s silence 

“It’s just--you know what seeing him does to you. Seriously, I think you have PTSD or something.” 

“I just thought he’d, I dunno, feel bad about being a bad dad, or something, and he’d bail us out. Don’t shake your head at me!” 

“I just can’t believe you’d go to your fucking rapist--” 

“That’s it. I’m done.” 

“--and ask for money!” 

She stomps across the kitchen, brushing past me. “Basher, I’m done! I’m finished with this conversation.” 

He rushes for her. “Seriously? You just flew all the way here and you’re just gonna--” 

Neither Moran seems to recognize that I’ve been eavesdropping on them for the last few minutes. 

“Yeah, actually I am.” 

“I haven’t seen you in, what, ten years?” 

“Which is why you’d think you’d be less inclined to gripe at me about this whole thing. Fucking Christ, I don’t know why I thought you’d be, like, understanding or God forbid, brotherly.” 

He grabs her arm to keep her from storming out the door. “I’m sorry. Carrie, I’m sorry. It’s just my default, you know? Like, I get uncomfortable, and we talk about dad, and I just--I just get upset, you know? I’m sorry. You’re not stupid.” He tries to pull her in for a hug but she jerks away. 

“It’s uncomfortable for me, too, Bash.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t have a monopoly on being mad at dad--Augustus.” 

I haven’t felt this invisible standing in plain sight since I introduced myself to Sherlock HOlmes as Jim from IT. I clear my throat. The siblings Moran turn their attention to me. I’ve no idea what to say, but it’s nice to be noticed, considering their spat is happening in my house. 

Basher glares at me. “Can I help you, Jim?” 

Carrie’s eyes narrow. “Wait, haven’t I seen you before?” 

Basher pales. “No you haven’t.” 

“Wasn’t he, like,--” 

“Yeah, we get that a lot. No it isn’t.” 

Recognition dawns on Carrie’s face and she’s positively certain that she knows me. “Moriarty.” 

“No.” 

“Jim Moriart--Oh my gosh, Sebastian Moran!” She turns back to him and slaps his arm. “You’re living in homosexual sin with a known terrorist!” 

Without missing a beat, Basher grabs her purse and fishes through it. “Oh like you don’t have some sort of kinky erotic novel in here, Madam Smut Reader.” 

She jerks the purse back. “How could you not tell me you were gay?” 

“I’m not gay!” 

“Then why are you engaged to a man?!” 

“Because we’re in love, you dumb bitch.” 

My cheeks warm, insecurities furthering themselves from me. 

“Isn’t that the definition of gay?” 

“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure the definition of gay is being attracted to many men.” 

“Oh so he’s just special?” 

“Yes!” 

_Aw. Tiger._ Pride swells in my chest. 

“Perhaps you two could stop shouting in my living room?” I suggest, trying to conceal how flustered I feel. Basher is infuritating and obnoxious and I hate him, but somehow he manages to pierce me in just the place to make me melt into a puddle of belovedness. With perfect timing, the kettle shrills from the kitchen. 

Both Morans are silent as they stare at their steaming cups of tea. 

I’m not sure why I’ve joined them, but I have, and Basher’s hand is on my thigh, out of his sister’s sight, and it’s so nice and warm that I can’t possibly leave now. Tentatively, I lean against his shoulder and, as he always does, he absently kisses my forehead. Those weird chemicals that tell me I’m secure and safe and loved flow through my veins and my shoulders relax. 

Girl Moran rolls her eyes, disgusted with Basher’s habit of affection. I grin at her, hoping it will drive her away. It doesn’t. She blows on her tea and takes a sip. “You make tea just like mum.” 

Basher goes on the defensive. “No I don’t.” 

“Yeah you do.” 

“No I don’t, _Carrie_.” 

“I don’t know why you’re getting angry about it.” 

“Oh like you’re not saying it just to make me angry!” 

“Basher! Jesus! Fuck, I came here for sympathy! How are you still such a dick?!” 

“How are you still such a bitch?!” 

I am really, honestly baffled by this relationship. In the past, Basher has spoken of Carrie with great respect and love and perhaps some sadness that he’s been written out of her life. When they first embraced in the doorway, they seemed to find comfort in one another. Now, they seem to purposely trying to irritate the other. 

Is _this_ what normal people do? Perhaps I’m not as unusual as I thought. 

“I’m so glad I didn’t bring my kids because I would hate for them--” 

“Yeah well I wish my kid hadn’t met you either!” 

“--to see how their UNCLE TREATS THEIR MUM!” 

“THEY AREN’T EVEN REALLY YOUR KIDS!” 

“Evelyn’s not really yours either, arsehole!” 

“The fuck she’s not!” 

“Oh was she from some previous relationship? Oh wait, you don’t have relationships, you just slut it up with women and then marry a man!” 

“You leave them out of this!” 

“Evelyn,” I tell her, “is mine.” 

Girl Moran rolls her eyes again, making it clear that she was no intention of engaging me in conversation or argument for that matter. “I could probably just turn him in and get a reward and I wouldn’t even have to worry about the money.” 

“Well, _Augusta_ that would be even dumber than you going to Augustus to ask for money because I would fucking kill you!” 

She slams her fist down on the table. “I get it, okay? Stop rubbing it in my face! Basher, I wouldn’t’ve gone to him unless I was desperate!” Tears twinkle in her eyes. I am beyond confused about the sibling dynamics here. “Like, I know it was stupid! Okay? I don’t need you reminding me!” 

Basher’s defense melts away. His hand leaves my thigh (and I hate that, and I don’t want him to stop touching me, not when his sister is perfectly capable of convincing him of their superstitious belief that homosexuality is wrong) and he reaches for hers. “Carrie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why we get like this.” 

She starts sobbing again. “Because we’re crazy.” 

He gets up and hurries to the otherside of the table to hug her, and she lets him. I suspect this is triangulation. Basher and Carrie are bitter towards their father, but he’s absent and unattainable, so they bitch at one another. Or perhaps they’re both still angry at the other for not preventing the abuse their father inflicted upon them. 

They murmur soft apologies to one another while Carrie continues to weep. 

“You just--you bring it up, and I just--I regret so much not doing anything about it. I just feel like shit that I didn’t try to protect you, you know? Like, when we were little, I should’ve tried to protect you, and I didn’t, and there’s just so much shame about that.” 

Carrie hugs him. “You were just a kid, Bash. That’s ridiculous. No one could’ve expected you to protect me from him. We were both just kids.” 

“I think it’s just easier to be angry at you for going to him than reliving how helpless I felt as a kid.” 

“Oh Bash.” They’re rocking back and forth now. Ignoring me. Again. I could clear my throat again, but if I do, I’ll need to say something, and I just want to exit this situation. Is there a way to graciously and silently exit a scenario where two siblings are discussing the abuse they faced as children and the guilt and shame they carry with them as adults? 

I’d thrown the idea around of obtaining another child, but seeing the Morans interact has put an end to that train of thought. 

“I know Evelyn’s yours.” 

“I know. And I know that those kids are yours too. I’m sorry that I said that.” 

“If anyone should know that blood doesn’t make a family, it’s us,” she says with more sniffles. Thankfully, her mascara has finally run dry and her tears are clear. 

“How much do you need?” 

Carrie shakes her head. 

“No, just tell me.” 

“Basher, I don’t want to make this your problem, okay?” 

“I’m not saying we can help. I’m just asking.” _We_ , I want to tell him, _are absolutely not helping._

“He took a little over 100,000 lei, which is only £20,000, but that’s way more than our savings.” 

“Your husband took off?” I ask. So much for the sanctity of heterosexual marriage. 

Carrie frowns at me. “No. Our church doubles as an orphanage in Romania. We’ve had this ministry assistant for the last six years, and we thought he was great. Everything went smoothly, he seemed so trustworthy, and then he had some sort of stroke or something and he died, and it turns out for the last six years he’d been embezzling money from the orphanage’s account and paying off some gambling debts in the States.” 

“That is hilarious.” 

“Jim!” 

“What? She comes in here talking about sin, and you’re scared to death of some holy man in the sky who only wants you to put your dick in women, and then someone in the church steals money from a bunch of orphans. If the universe weren’t arbitrary and cold and random, I believe the term applied here would be poetic justice.” 

Carrie looks me dead in the eyes, just as fearless as her brother. “Listen here, you fuck-wad, I have been quiet the whole time about you two being an abomination--” 

Basher covers her mouth. “Jim! God, why do you have to provoke her?” 

“Your sister just called me an abomination, and you’re yelling at _me_?” 

“We just poisoned all the blondes in Evelyn’s class so that she could play Goldilocks, Jim! We are abominations!” 

“For poisoning seven-year-olds, possibly. Not because we have a happy, loving relationship in which we raise a child.” 

“Uh, actually, that’s exactly why you’re an abomination.” 

“Jesus Christ, Carrie! Why are you like this?” 

“Why are you?!” 

“You know we kill people, right?” 

Her eyes widen in faux fear. “Oooh, are you going to come after me? Should I be worried that you’re threatening me?” 

“No! I’m saying don’t give him a reason to come after you!” 

“Oh, so you’re not going to defend my honor, Basher?” 

“Jim, please don’t put me in this position.” 

I’m not sure what expression covers my face, but I know that suddenly I’m afraid again. INsecure. I’m second in the hierarchy of Basher’s loved ones, and before I can be angry, I’m just anxious. 

He reaches for me. “Baby, I’m sorry.” 

I pull back, unable to breathe. “Don’t touch me.” 

He comes back round to my side of the table, encroaching on me. “Jim, I’m sorry. Kitten, don’t be like that. C’mere.” I put up a half-hearted fight, but ultimately I let him pull me into his lap. “I’m sorry, okay? She’s dumb and she’s wrong, but she’s my sister, and I love her, okay?” I want to be mad at Basher, really I do. But he’s so warm and he smells so good and he’s so sincere. He kisses my forehead again. “Do you forgive me?” I shrug. He kisses my lips. “Kitten?” Ugh. The nickname is my kryptonite. Damn him. “Kitten, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” 

“Don’t tell me that you love me and then act as though you’re ashamed of me, Sebastian.” 

“You’re right,” he placates me. “That was unfair. I’m sorry.” 

It works, though. I feel my anxiety ebbing away. I lean against him, eager for touches and pets. Especially in front of his bitch sister. I supercede whatever idiotic beliefs the two of them hold. 

“Tell me you love me.” 

“I do, kitten. I love you.” 

“Tell her.” 

He laughs beneath his breath, then turns to Carrie. “I love him, Carrie.” 

_He’s my family now, stupid bitch. He’s my big bad soldier, my pet Tiger, mine, mine, mine. And no one gives a shit about you or your pitiful orphans or your ridiculous dogma._

Carrie shakes her head and laughs. “You’re whipped, Bash.” 

Basher doesn’t take offense to this. He grins that toothy, scar-stretching grin and says, “You live with this one and Evelyn long enough, it happens.” 

Carrie’s eyes soften and she takes a drink from her tea. “She’s beautiful, by the way. Did you guys use a surrogate?” 

“She was adopted.” 

“Really? Because she looks so much like Jim.” 

“I know! Isn’t that crazy? It’s called attunement. Basically babies mimic facial expressions. I guess it slowly molds the bone structure in the face or something?” 

“One of ours, Katie, she looks just like Joe. Just like him.” 

“How many do you have now?” 

Carrie’s face turns bright red. “Seven. Four adopted. Three are biological.” 

“Jesus, that sounds exhausting.” 

“They’re all pretty wild.” The phone comes out and suddenly she and Basher are thumbing through photos of ethnically variable children. 

~~

Evelyn and Carrie are finishing the dishes. After the initial awkwardness, Evelyn seems to have warmed up to her aunt. And because the two seem to like each other well enough, I find my murderous dislike of Carrie ebbing. Damn it, just like the Lesbians in Texas. 

While niece and aunt wrap up after-dinner work, Basher pulls me into a cuddle on the sofa. Truthfully, I’m feeling a tad too warm and a bit bloated after such a heavy meal (Basher decided to show off his new culinary skills and roasted a leg of lamb with an entire stick of butter), but I allow it. He’s full, a little buzzed, and happy, and when he gets like this, he reminds me of a big cat rolling around in the grass. His fingertips stroke the edges of my earlobe while he hums contentedly to himself. 

He finishes off the whiskey in his glass. Now empty-handed, he lifts my chin to kiss him. The alcohol tingles on my lips. “You drink too much.” 

“It’s a celebration. I haven’t seen Carrie in a really long time.” 

“You drink to celebrate, to watch boxing matches, to cope with bad days--you have a problem.” 

He kisses my temple. “Nah.” 

“Why did she come here? Was she asking you for the money?” 

“No,” he answers, emphatically. “No, absolutely not. Augustus is a terrible man, and one time he got really drunk, and he, er, he did some things to Carrie. And she won’t admit it, but that experience really traumatized her. When she sees him, she breaks out in hives, and her fingers go numb, the whole nine yards. I’m not one for therapy, but if anyone could benefit from it, she could. Anyway, she just needed to vent. She went to ask Augustus for money, which was just incredibly dumb, and he was a prick, no surprise. 

“When he was an ambassador--before he went to prison for being a North Korean terrorist--he would donate to causes like that--widows and orphans, that sort of thing. It made him look good with the Church, and it made him look good with the press. Now, though, he has nothing to lose, _except_ money, and even though he can’t spend it in prison, he sure as hell won’t give it to his daughter. 

“Anyway, she had a panic attack, so she came here.” 

“Why here?” 

“I get the impression that she’s not told her husband about the abuse. As far as I know, you and me and her are the only ones who know what Augustus did to her.” 

“So?” 

He kisses me again. “My weird psychopathic genius,” he teases. “Normal people-- _ordinary_ people--like to talk things out when bad things happen. She was thrown for a loop, and rather than go explain to her family about her past, she came here, because I already knew. Sometimes you just need someone whose been through it with you.” 

“Rape” is such a strange thing. Arugably, I’d been raped throughout my childhood (see Carl Powers, weird science teacher, et cetera), but I certainly don’t have the same reactions that Carrie has. Is is still considered rape if it’s not traumatizing? 

I’m just not ordinary. Normal. I process things differently, I suppose. 

_My lack of self-preservation has always been the ace up my sleeve._

I’ve never told Basher about Powers, about _why_ I killed him. Based on how much Carrie’s rape bothers him, I won’t ever tell him. Such a sensitive sniper. He worries about me too much as it is. And really, I’m fine. 

“I wish I’d done more,” he adds after a long pause. “I wish I’d--I wish I’d stopped it.” 

Oh. God. Touchy-feely Basher is on the prowl. What the fuck do I say to that? _Keep your guilt to yourself because I don’t fucking care_? Or perhaps _The only part of this that bothers me is how much it bothers you_? I’m never sure how to handle this aspect of Basher’s personality. 

_Empathy_ seems such a useless element of humanity. So does regret. Occasionally, I’ll have flashes of both, but otherwise they’re just foreign concepts to me. 

I hate seeing my Tiger remorseful. Well, there are stipulations to that. I love seeing him remorseful when he’s ticked me off or when he’s failed. But if my disappointment isn’t the cause of his remorse, then I hate seeing him remorseful. 

“I wish I knew how to fix this for her.” 

“Providing money now won’t fix the past.” My stomach is in knots, and I’m clueless as to why. 

“I know that. I’m just saying that once in my life I’d like to be able to protect my sister.” He stares at the floor, and for a moment he looks nothing like the predator I told to marry me. He looks weak and helpless and instead of hating him, I just want to . . . 

To what? I can’t fix the psychological damage of the siblings Moran. I can barely understand it. But that look of profound regret is burning a hole in the lining of my stomach. 

“We’re not giving her money.” 

“I’m not asking, Jim. I’m just sharing my feelings with you.” 

“Well, stop.” 

~~

I have to hold Carrie back at arm’s length to avoid being hugged. “Ugh, stop.” 

“Thank you, Jim.” 

“I’m not giving you the money. It’s a loan.” 

“It means a lot, Jim.” 

“With a very high interest rate.” 

She swerves to the side so that she can swoop in and kiss my cheek. “I still think you’re an abomination.” 

“Ditto. Get out.” I wipe her lipstick from my cheek. “Learn how to properly apply make-up. You look like a harlot.” 

Basher, oblivious to the deal I’ve just made with the devil, comes out of Carrie’s bedroom carrying her suitcase and Evelyn on his back singing about piggyback rides. 

“Don’t say a word,” I warn Carrie. 

“My lips are sealed.” 

“Yes because you wear too much lipstick.” 

“You sure you can’t stay longer?” Basher asks his sister. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. We’ll just end up fighting. And I hate to leave Joe with fifty orphans and our own kids for too long.” 

“Can I drive you to the airport?” 

“No, my cab should be here any minute.” 

The Morans embrace. “I’ll let you know when the wedding is.” 

“I won’t come to it.” 

“You should, you cantankerous bitch.” 

Evelyn laughs at the slur. “I’m gonna be in it! I’m gonna be the maid of honor!” 

Carrie’s expression softens. “I’ll think about it. Send me an invitation.” 

I clear my throat. “You’re not invited.” 

“Yes you are.” 

Evelyn hops off of Basher’s back, and runs to Carrie, extending her hand. “Bye, bitch!” 

Basher bops the back of her head. “Evey! That is not appropriate!” 

Outside, the cabbie honks before he’s completely in front of our house. I shove Carrie out the door, taking her bags from Basher and tossing them after her. “Bye, bitch!” 

~~

Basher’s hands on my shoulders bring me out of my thoughts. Up until now, I was oblivious to the ache in my shoulders and the burning in my eyes. I check the clock on the wall. It’s three in the morning. 

I try to squirm out of his reach. Sometimes, not always, I hate being touched. Right now, I absolutely hate it. “I’m working.” 

He works the tension in my shoulders. “Jesus, you’ve got a knot here.” 

“Did you wake up at three to give me a massage?” 

“What are you working on?” 

“Nothing.” 

“You’re supposed to keep me in the loop, remember?” 

_If you had any discernment at all, idiot, you’d know I loaned your sister £30,000._ Luckily, Basher is oblivious to most things, and “luckily” is not a word I often apply to his obliviousness. “Some things you’ll never know.” He presses on a knot of muscle and fascia until it releases. My fingertips tingle as the bloodflow resumes 

“I’m guessing it has something to do with Augustus being strangled in his cell?” 

Roylott’s two days early. That won’t do. I can’t have my underlings making their own calls, even if they are beneficial. Roylott may need to be disposed of sooner rather than later. Unless this murder gets him transferred . . . 

“Jim? Did you kill my dad?” 

“Of course not, I’ve been here the whole time.” 

He grins and I melt. Damn his eyes, how does he manage to do that every goddamned time? He kisses the top of my head. “You didn’t have to do that, kitten. But I appreciate it.” 

I’ll need to get my hands on Moran Senior’s last will and testament. Make some changes to ensure that I get that £30k back. And if Carrie gets the money, then Basher won’t be so miserable about his childhood, and we never have to see her again. And maybe Basher will inherit something as well as Girl Moran. 

“It wasn’t for you.” 

“Who was it for then?” 

“Me, of course.” 

Basher snorts. “How do you benefit from his death?” 

_Well, for starters, his newly forged will leaving £40,000 to his daughter will ensure I get paid back with interest._ “Because if he’s dead, then your sister won’t come here again because of a panic attack that he incited.” 

He laughs, warm and deep, and without realizing it, I rest my head against his torso. “I appreciate that as well.” 

“She’s not coming to the wedding.” 

“Yes she is.” 

“No.” 

“Three in the morning isn’t the best time for wedding planning, kitten.” He kneels down beside me, closing my laptop. “Come on. Bedtime.” 

I shatter into a thousand pieces as his eyes, still tinted with sleep, meet mine and light up. The smile he gives me is warm and breath-taking and simple and he’s just . . . 

Those icky overwhelming feelings wash over me, and my chest feels like it will burst. His grin and his eyes and his neck and his shoulders and he’s mine-- 

I rest my forehead against his and the confession comes out before I can stop it, before I can even realize that I truly, deeply mean it. “I also just hate it when you’re sad.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's reading and has experienced abuse or neglect or abandonment based on their sexuality or identity, I hope you understand that this chapter isn't intended to denigrate your experience or your existence. I'm sure it would have been enjoyable for you if someone told Carrie off or if she died or she saw the error of her ways and apologized or something, but here's the thing: Family is difficult. Being a part of a family is difficult, and sometimes we make the choice to love people despite their flaws and beliefs. And, hey, sometimes we don't. Sometimes we write those assholes out of our lives, and that's fine too. But that is not the option that Basher has chosen.
> 
> Also, it's hard to escape your origins. Basher can be a tough guy, but I think when he's around his sister, he falls back into that role of helpless younger sibling. I think we all do that. Healthy or not, we sometimes regress into our previous roles in our family dynamic.
> 
> I don't know. I feel like I have to justify so much of this chapter, but, like, I can't because family dynamics are irrational and illogical and unjustifiable.


	14. Wedding Planning Soundbytes | All Dialogue | Scratchpad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No plot, no ending, just ideas that won't leave.

"We should get all of our wedding decorations from Sky Mall."

"Jim. No." 

~

"Jim, We are not inviting Dwayne Johnson to our wedding." 

"And just why the hell not?" 

"Well for starters, he didn't come to Evelyn's birthday bash or your dinner party or your fake aunt's fake funeral." 

"He didn't even RSVP no! So rude. I'm giving him the opportunity to redeem himself." 

". . . Jameson, we are not inviting Dwayne Johnson to our wedding." 

~

"WE SURE AS FUCK ARE NOT INVITING SHERLOCK HOLMES!" 

"Inappropriate outburst, first of all. Second, this is _my_ wedding too, so stop vetoing all of my guests." 

"I'm not letting the love of your life attend _our_ wedding." 

"I don't _love_ him. I'm obsessed with him." 

"He's not getting an invite." 

"Basher!" 

"He thinks your dead anyway. Move on." 

"What, I can't be dead and get married?" 

"Typically, no." 

"Are you jealous of Sherlock? 

"Yes." 

"Oh. . . . Baaash. My big jealous fiance." 

"Stop it." 

"You're cute when you're jealous." 

"Stop." 

~

"You're not wearing white." 

"Oh my gooooood, Sebastian, you are KILLING ME." 

"If we're going to be an affront to God, we're at least going to be honest about it." 

"You won't let me wear the dress, you won't let me wear white, you won't let me invite ANYONE--" 

"THAT IS NOT EVEN TRUE. I'm just not letting you invite the entire cast of _Sex and the City_!" 

"I'm going to wear red then." 

"I won't let you dress like a virgin so you're going to dress like a gigolo?" 

"Yes." 

". . . I don't know why I expected anything else." 

~

"Jim!" 

"Yes?" 

"Why is there a wedding dress in our closet?" 

"Because when Evelyn's older, she might want to wear my wedding dress to her wedding." 

"You AREN'T WEARING A DRESS!" 

"That doesn't mean I can't have one! It's tradition!" 

"Wait a second. Is this my _mother's_ wedding dress?" 

"Obviously." 

~

"Bash?" 

"Hm?" 

"It's one in the morning. What are you doing?" 

"Nothing." 

"Are you looking at porn?" 

". . .yes." 

"Oh my god, you're still on pinterest." 

"Look at these wedding cakes!" 

"Go to bed, Basher." 

". . . I also have a board for centerpieces for the reception. You know, if you wanted to look with me." 

". . . Fine. But only because you're a horrendous decorator." 

"Jim?" 

"Hm?" 

"I'm really excited about marrying you."


	15. Sex (or lack thereof)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim discovers that his masculinity isn't Basher's only for not having sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK, man. There's always fics and porn about gay men and anal sex, and I get that that's about fantasy and everything, so I'm not criticizing it at all because I do it too, but I think it sets the stage for inexperienced gay men exploring their sexuality to be a little confused. Not that I am an expert on sex in any way, shape or form, but I think it sort of perpetuates a sort of hetero-normative idea that sex has to be penetrative.
> 
> I just remembered this time in high school that my newly outed friend was questioning his sexuality (again) because he didn't like anal because it hurt, it was messy, etc, and then our other friend who was a big time yaoi fan was like, "Here's all the different you can have sex with other men!" 
> 
> So, yeah, just because it isn't anal doesn't mean it's not gay sex.

_June 2016_

The door banging against the wall brings me out of the world of polynomials and gravitational lensing. For a split second, I've forgotten who I am, where I am, that I own a body and am not just a cluster of ideas and thoughts, et cetera.  Seeing Basher with papers in his hand and an idiotic grin on his face brings it all back in a flash. I'm back in my body, aware that the hours of poring over journals and my own notes has left my shoulders tight and my eyes hot. I have to blink a few more times to adjust to reality.

"Jim!" he shouts. "Look!"

He shoves the papers at me, and they're instantly recognizable as something from the _Huffington Pos_ t or other pop-news outlet. We don't have a printer in our flat, so this tells me that my dear idiot fiance has travelled to the library or somewhere equally ridiculous to print out an internet article.  

I stare at him with a dropped jaw. "You could've just sent me the link, you know." I motion to the laptop beside me. "I've got, you know, email."

Basher is buzzing with excitement. "No! Read it!"

I begin to read aloud the parts he's highlighted:

> _The Truth About Gay Mansex_
> 
> _Here's the truth: there are a lot of gay men who don't like anal sex! Preparation can be a pain, sometimes you just don't wanna wait, and hell, some of us don't like it!_ _So, now that that's out of the way, let's talk about other ways to have sex with your man--_

I interrupt my reading to tell my darling idiot that, "None of this is news to me, Basher. Not that this should be a surprise to you, but I've been doing the whole gay sex bit for a while now."

"No! You're missing the point!"

"What's the point then?"

"We can just have frottage-y sex or just handjobs or whatever! It still counts! We don't have to do all that other stuff! We don't have to schedule and plan sex all the goddamn time!"

I rub my eyes. Coming out of research mode is like waking up with a hangover. Everything is achy and too bright. And Basher's stupidity is trying my already thin patience.  "I know that."

"Jim! We can have sex!"

"Yes, we can." _Oh._   The realization hits me. "You want to have sex right now?"

"Yes!"

I blink again, a bit taken aback. I've at least partially misunderstood our situation. I'd assumed his heterosexuality had been the only reason our sexlife had been virtually nonexistent, and that's still probably true, but it has also had to do with Basher not understanding how sex can work without the male/female ends. He's been avoiding it because he thought everything always had to be anal.

Catholics are really so sweet and naive.

Secretly, I'm pleased that my masculinity hasn't been the sole turn-off for my heterosexual betrothed. Soothes the ego a bit that I haven't completely stomped out the blazing libido Basher Moran was known for amongst my callgirls.

I point to the journal I'm reading. "Can I finish the article first?"

"Are we gonna have sex? Like, I just need to know."

"Yes, just let me finish this. I've got to change gears, and I can't in the midst of reading a study."

His face falls. "How long will you be?"

I shrug.  I count the pages left of the journal article I'm reading.  "Erm, give me ten minutes, and I'll meet you in the bedroom."

With an excitement that actually makes me blush, he jumps up and shouts, "Yes!" before starting to slip out of his shirt and making a mad dash down the hall.


	16. Strangers in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy times and murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once took an online course about relationships (specifically marriages) and media. We, the audience and the creators, labor to get a couple together but then once they're together either the audience loses interest or the creator ends the story. 
> 
> This is, I think, my attempt to combat that. Happy, healthy relationships shouldn't be considered "boring" nor should the two in the relationship constantly be at odds with one another. So . . . here's a relatively unproblematic portrayal of the murder husbands doing extremely problematic things to everyone but each other.

_November 2016 | Jim's POV_

We're holding hands.  We always do along BR-050.  It's a stressful highway.  It's simply a long stretch of nothing, just a straight path of concrete and a few farms, and the sun is always shining too bright when we take it, and it shimmers and sparkles in the heat and light, and it's overwhelming.  

Or at least it used to be.  It's not so much anymore.  It used to trigger an agoraphobic-like fear, staring at the nothingness of that stretch of BR-050.  Few trees to cast shadows, no shadows to hide in, no surprises because everything's visible, just open space that went on seemingly forever.  The first time we drove it, it took my breath away.  Now, though, it's manageable.

Basher holds my hand while he drives.  The brightness isn't as unbearable now.  It's unnerving, the exposure this road enforces, but not the way it used to be when we first crossed it.  I lean against my fiance's shoulder, and he absently kisses my forehead.   He's not aware he does it, but I am, and I use it to my advantage when I find the weaker side of my psyche needing the reassurance oxytocin provides.

Basher smacks his lips, severing the silence in the automobile.  "I don't think Evey brushed her teeth this morning," he murmurs to himself. 

"She did.  I wiped toothpaste off her chin this morning before I took her into the school."

"She's a bloody nightmare, isn't she?" Basher's tone is one of pure affection.

I can't stop the smile forming on my lips.  "She is."

I love my daughter.  I've made peace with that.

I love Basher.  I've made peace with that also.

Mostly.

~~

 _"The summer wind came blowin' in from across the sea. . ."_ Frankie crones, his voice made scratchy by the record player.  At my feet is a dead man, courtesy of my betrothed.  Basher made quick work of him with a punch to the gut and a bullet to the back of his skull roughly half an hour ago.  Unfortunately, the pageantry of being a good old-fashioned villain often requires a lot of waiting in the dark, but, alas, I am devoted to my aesthetic.  Basher's been hiding in the closet, pleased to be on the hunt again.  The mixture of criminal and domestic life has done wonders for his attitude.

Bright yellow light cuts through the darkness of the basement room as the door is opened.  "Que diabos, cabrão?"  Beryl Garcia snaps at her recently deceased husband.  "Por que você dorme ao meio dia?"  She flips the overhead light on and gasps to see me, seated on her cigarette-burned leather sofa.  "Moriarty," she breathes. "Ay, fuck, why did you do that?"  She motions to her dead cuckolded husband at my feet.

"Berry, dear, so good to see you."

_"I lost you, I lost you to the summer wind. . ."_

"You didn't even take his organs."  She sighs.  "What a waste.  That's, like, one hundred thou right there."

"His liver wouldn't do anyone much good."  I beam at her, always pleased at how unafraid she is to face me. Her fearlessness is endearing.  I hope Evey is as confident and brave as Beryl is when she's an adult. I really do like Beryl.  It's a pity we have to dispose of her.  "There's a number you've been texting that I'm a bit concerned about, Berry."

She shrugs her shoulders, going to the mini-fridge to get a beer.  "Yeah, and which number is that?" 

"It's a British number."

She pops the cap of the bottle.  "Yeah, so?  I told you straight up when we started working together I was a human-trafficking informant."

"You did, but, see, my dear, that particular number--it once belonged to a woman who ran MI-6 and the CIA.  It likely still does, though I'll grant it's possible it doesn't.  Someone like Anthea Cartwright can't afford to change numbers too often lest her friends are unable to contact her."  

She keeps a good poker face, but I can see the fear creeping up her spine.  "Don't try to play me, boy.  How could you know who I've been texting?"

It's my turn to shrug.  "You know who I am.  You know what I do."

" _And guess who sighs his lullabies through nights that never end / M_ _y fickle friend, the summer wind. . ."_

Basher, quite as a mouse, moves from the closet, pistol at the ready.  

"I haven't told her anything about you, Moriarty," she spits at me.  "The guns and the whores--these are two completely unrelated things.  I only tell her what Grigori is up to."

"I believe you," I tell her honestly.  "But see, I  _can't_ have you texting Anthea.  I just can't.  It's just too risky."

The fear spreads from her mouth to her eyes.  Her left hand goes to draw whatever weapon she's stuffed down the back of her trousers, but Basher cocks his Walther P99, and all the blood drains from her face.  A quick  _pop_ and a splatter of blood and she falls to the ground, twitching in much the same way her husband did after he was shot.  A ghastly groan escapes the dead woman.  Sinatra stops singing.  The scratch of the needle on vinyl and the echo of the shot are the only sounds in the diminutive room.  

Basher grins at me.  "Nice shot, eh?"

"Relatively clean," I answer, checking my shoes for blood.  There is none, because my pretty Tiger is a pro.  Beryl's beer is emptying on the concrete floor.  I step back to avoid the growing puddle. 

The music swells up again with a new song, and Basher's face lights up.  "Aw, kitten!" he grins at me, sheathing the still-hot gun.  "This is our song!"

 _"Strangers in the night, exchanging glances, wandering in the night. . ."_ One hand takes mine and the other snakes around to rest on the small of my back.  The insecurities, once so prevalent in situations like this, are almost completely absent now, and I can enjoy this.  I can enjoy the sappy gesture because it's safe to do so.  

I half-scoff.  "What?  We don't have a song."  Basher begins to sway back and forth.  

"We do.  In my head, we do," he jokes.  He pulls me closer and starts to sing.  _"Something in your eyes was so inviting.  Something in your smile was so exciting."_

"Careful, don't tread in the blood."

"Shush.  Pretend like we're not at a crime scene."

I laugh.  Basher likes my laugh.  He kisses the tip of my nose.  I lean up and kiss his mouth, and we laugh at the absurdity of dancing to Sinatra so close to murder victims.  He gazes into my eyes, and it's intense the way Basher's affections always are, but I'm stronger than I was before, and I can withstand it now.  "I want this to be our first dance at the reception," he says during the instrumental. 

The fact that he thinks so often about our upcoming nuptials threatens to overwhelm me.  I have to take a moment to compose myself.  "I was thinking  _Bad Romance_."

He pulls a face.  "We are  _not_ playing Lady Gaga at our wedding."

"Why not?"

"Because she's trashy and gaudy, and I want our wedding to be a relatively classy affair."

"Pish posh!  You watch your tongue, Tiger, or I'll have you made into a throw rug."

We laugh again and he sings along.  " _Strangers in the night, two lonely people we were strangers in the night_. . ."

I rest my head on his shoulder and we dance clumsily in the small spaces untouched by blood and beer for the remainder of the song.  He smells of tobacco and gun powder and our daughter's hair oil and my aftershave.  He's still so warm from the Brazilian sun beating down through the window on the drive here, and I can feel his voice rumble in his chest as he sings. Everything about him feels so comfortable.  "Oop, watch out," he says as he lifts me off my feet so that I don't step in the blood that's slowly gaining ground.  

_"It turned out so right for strangers in the night."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I just. . . keep having ideas for the boys. And I love them.
> 
> ALSO, I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA IF YOU HAVE TO COCK WALTHER P99 BEFORE FIRING. I'll probably research it at some point.


	17. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Augustus Moran goes to prison for being a terrorist. Shortly after Sherlock's return. Just cleanin' up the timeline a little bit.

_November 2013 | Jim's POV_

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, has taken few precautions with his email.  And his phone.  Honestly, if Adler ever nails him down, maybe she'll teach him how to appropriately safeguard his phone.  It's difficult, not acting immediately.  I need him dead so I can resume my life.  Resume being a proper dad and all that.  I've been grading my students' papers based on how little they get on my nerves.  Can't keep that up for too long lest Administration catches on.  I need to be able to exist again, and as long as Sherlock is alive, I can't.

_killsherlockkillsherlockkillsherlock._

"What in the actual hell?" Basher's voice carries from the bedroom that we're tentatively sharing.  He seems to think it's appropriate to share a bed despite the lack of sexual activities, and I've been too distracted to correct him.  That, and I haven't been sleeping that often to really be affected by his bulk.  Sometimes he reaches out in his sleep to pull me to him.  I usually just weasel my way out of his grip and go to the living room to work.  The idiot hasn't noticed.  

I've no intention of pursuing the cause of his outburst.  Apparently, he does, though, because he bounds into the living room and shoves his mobile phone into my face.  "What the hell is this?"

"I'm working," I sing to him, warning him to leave me alone. 

"My dad just got arrested for being a Korean terrorist!"

I shrug. "I've nothing to say to that, Bash."

"Is my dad a Korean terrorist?"

"He's an operative for North Korea.  Obviously, he's not Korean."

Basher's eyes narrow.  "This has Moriarty written all over it."

I roll my eyes and sigh and toss my tablet to the side.  Clearly, Basher wants to discuss this.  No idea why.  I certainly have no desire to.  "What do you want to know?"

He gapes, unsure how to answer.  "What the hell?"  He spreads his arms, indicating  _everything_. 

Oh god, it was years ago.  I'm so over it.  Macro-Altaic languages have never been my forte, and communicating with one of the Vice Premiers of the Supreme People's Assembly wasn't anywhere near as much as fun as I'd hoped.  

"Lord Moran asked me for a favor.  I asked him for one in return."

"What favor?"

All I want to do is read Sherlock's emails.  I roll my eyes again and rub my hands over my face.  "He wanted to make sure you didn't go to prison and that the dishonorable discharge was as underplayed as possible.  Didn't want it to affect any future nominations or elections.  I made a few charges go away--specifically the one that stated you raped the General Major's daughter--"

He scowls, "I didn't rape her!  It was her birthday!  She came to my barracks for Christ sake!  Naked!"

"I do not care, Basher--and he made sure a few phone calls went unnoticed by the NDEDIU.  If he chose to stay in touch with the Worker's Party of North Korea, that's his business." 

Basher blinks stupidly at me.  "So you didn't put him up to it?"

"Put him up to what?"

"Trying to blow up Parliament or whatever the hell he's being accused of?"

"No."

The expression on his face is unreadable.  

"Are you upset that I didn't?"

"No.  I just. . .don't really know how to feel."

"Don't," I tell him with a shrug.  "Don't feel.  There's nothing to feel.  Your abusive father whom you haven't spoken with since your deployment is going to prison and literally no part of that is going to affect your life."

"It's. . .odd, I suppose.  I hate the man, but I still feel. . .I don't know, loyal?  I feel loyal to him somehow."

Poor sweet, simple soldier.  "Let it go, Basher.  He has no loyalty to you.  Holding onto that only makes you vulnerable, and in return, it makes Evelyn vulnerable."

He nods slowly.  "I'm, erm, I'm gonna sleep on the couch tonight.  If that's all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I just. . .I'm not angry at you or anything."

"Why would you be?"

"Nevermind.  I just need to be alone for a while."

He skulks off.  For the shortest of moments, my hindbrain tells me to reach out to him, to go to him,  _comfort_ him.  But I've my own issues, my own obsessions.  I've got an entire span of a relationship to tend to Basher.  I have limited access to Sherlock Holmes.

_killsherlock._


End file.
